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MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

THIRD   EDITION 


tnw?.  or  TAMF.  IJWUKY.  i,rw  ANCFI.F* 


MLLE. 
FOUCHETTE 

BY 

CHARLES  THEODORE 
MURRAY 

ILLUSTRATED  BY  W.  H.  RICHARDSON 
E.  BENSON  KENNEDY  &  FRANCIS  DAY 


PHILADELPHIA     y     LONDON 
J.    B.    LIPPINCOTT     COMPANY 

M  C  M  I  I 


COPYRIGHT,  1902 

BY 
CHARLES  THEODORE  MURRAY 

All  rights  reserved 
Published   March,  1902 


Printed  by 
J.  B.  Liffincttt  Cemfan,,  Phlladilphia,  U.  S.  A. 


MR.   R.  F.   ("TODY")   HAMILTON 

A    CHARMING    GENTLEMAN,   DELIGHTFUL 
TRAVELLING    COMPANION,   PRAC- 
TICAL   PHILOSOPHER,   AND 
RELIABLE   FRIEND 


21.31424 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FOUCHETTE Frontispiece 

HlS  STILL   UNCONSCIOUS   BURDEN        ....    Page   136 

SHE  SEIZED  JEAN  BY  THE  ARM "      182 

IT  WAS  A  CRITICAL  MOMENT "      383 


MLLE.    FOUCHETTE 


CHAPTER   I 

"  GET  along,  you  little  beast  !" 

Madame  Podvin  accompanied  her  admonition  with 
a  vigorous  blow  from  her  heavy  hand. 

"Out,  I  say!" 

Thump. 

"  You  lazy  caniche  !" 

Thump. 

"  You  get  no  breakfast  here  this  morning  !" 

Thump. 

"  Out  with  you  !" 

Thump. 

In  the  mean  time  the  unhappy  object  of  these  objur- 
gations and  blows  had  been  rapidly  propelled  towards 
the  open  door,  and  was  with  a  final  thump  knocked 
into  the  street. 

A  stray  dog  ?  Oh,  no  ;  a  dog  is  never  abused  in  this 
way  in  Paris.  It  would  probably  cause  a  riot. 

It  was  only  a  wee  bit  of  a  child,  —  dirty,  clothed  in 
rags,  with  tangled  blonde  hair  that  had  never,  appar- 
ently, seen  a  comb,  and  whose  little  bare  feet  and  thin 
ankles  were  incrusted  with  the  dried  filth  of  the  gut- 
ters. 

Being  only  a  child,  the  few  neighbors  who  were 
abroad  at  that  early  hour  merely  grinned  at  her  as  she 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 


picked  herself  up  and  limped  away  without  a  cry  or  a 
word. 

"  She's  a  tough  one,"  muttered  a  witness. 

"  She's  got  to  be  mighty  tough  to  stand  the  Podvin," 
responded  another. 

In  the  rapidly  increasing  distance  the  child  seemed 
to  justify  these  remarks;  for  she  began  to  step  out 
nimbly  towards  the  town  of  Charenton  without  wasting 
time  over  her  grievances. 

"  All  the  same,  I'm  hungry,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"  and  the  streets  of  Charenton  will  be  mighty  poor 
picking  half  an  hour  hence." 

She  paused  presently  to  examine  a  pile  of  garbage 
in  front  of  a  house.  But  the  dogs  had  been  there  be- 
fore her, — there  was  nothing  to  eat  there. 

These  piles  of  garbage  awaited  the  tour  of  the  carts ; 
they  began  to  appear  at  an  early  hour  in  the  morning, 
and  within  an  hour  had  been  picked  over  by  rag- 
pickers, dogs,  and  vagrants  until  absolutely  nothing 
was  left  that  could  be  by  any  possibility  utilized  by 
these  early  investigators.  Here  and  there  two  or  three 
dogs  contested  the  spoils  of  a  promising  pile,  to  sepa- 
rate with  watchful  amity  to  gnaw  individual  bones. 

As  it  was  a  principal  highway  from  the  Porte  de 
Charenton  to  the  town,  the  piles  of  refuse  had  been 
pretty  thoroughly  overhauled  by  the  dogs  and  human 
scum  that  infested  the  barrier. 

Finally,  the  girl  stopped  as  a  stout  woman  appeared 
at  a  grille  with  a  paper  of  kitchen  refuse  which  she 
was  about  to  throw  into  the  street. 

They  looked  at  each  other  steadily, — the  child  with 
eager,  hungry  eyes;  the  woman  with  resentment. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 


"  There  is  nothing  here  for  you,"  rasped  the  latter, 
retaining  her  hold  upon  the  folded  parcel  as  she 
advanced  to  the  curb  and  glanced  up  and  down  the 
street. 

The  child,  who  had  unconsciously  carried  her  rag- 
picker's hook,  stood  waiting  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 

"  Don't  you  hear  me  ?"  repeated  the  woman,  threat- 
eningly. "  Be  off  with  you !" 

"  It  is  a  public  road,"  said  the  little  one. 

"  You  beggar " 

"  I  haven't  asked  you  for  anything,  madame,"  inter- 
rupted the  child,  with  quivering  voice, — "  I'd  die  be- 
fore asking  you  for  anything, — but  I  have  as  much 
right  to  the  road  as  you." 

There  was  a  flash  of  defiance  in  the  small  blue  eyes 
now. 

Two  street  dogs  came  up  on  a  run.  The  woman 
threw  down  her  parcel  to  them  and,  retreating, 
slammed  the  iron  gate  after  her. 

With  a  wicked  swing  of  her  hook  the  child  drove 
the  dogs  away  and  hastily  inspected  the  garbage.  A 
piece  of  stale  crust  and  some  half-decayed  fruit  re- 
warded her.  A  gristled  end  of  beef  she  threw  to  the 
dogs,  that  watched  her  wistfully  a  few  yards  away. 

"  Voila !  I  divide  fair,  messieurs,"  said  she,  skil- 
fully munching  the  sound  spots  out  of  the  fruit  and 
casting  the  rest  on  the  ground. 

"  One  would  have  thought  madame  was  about  to 
spread  a  banquet,"  she  muttered. 

She  sauntered  away,  stopping  to  break  the  crust 
with  a  piece  of  loose  paving,  with  a  sharp  eye  out  for 
other  windfalls. 


io  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

A  young  girl  saw  her  from  a  garden,  and  shyly 
peeped  through  the  high  wrought-iron  fence  at  the 
little  savage. 

Though  the  latter  never  stopped  a  second  in  her 
process  of  mastication,  she  eyed  the  other  quite  as 
curiously, — something  as  she  might  have  regarded  a 
strange  but  beautiful  animal  through  the  bars  of  its 
cage. 

In  experience  and  practical  knowledge  of  life  the 
respective  ages  of  these  two  might  have  been  reversed ; 
the  child  of  the  street  been  sixteen  instead  of  twelve. 

Undersized,  thin,  sallow,  and  sunburned, — bare- 
headed, barefooted,  dirty,  and  ragged, — she  formed  a 
striking  contrast  to  the  rosy-cheeked,  plump,  full- 
lipped,  and  well-dressed  young  woman  within. 

The  extraordinary  sound  of  crunching  very  natu- 
rally attracted  the  first  attention  of  the  elder. 

"  What  in  the  world  is  that  which  you  are  eating, 
child  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Bread,  ma'm'selle." 

"  Bread !    Why,  it's  covered  with  dirt !" 

"  Yes,  ma'm'selle." 

Redoubled  exertion  of  the  sound  young  teeth. 

"  Why  do  you  eat  that?" 

"  Hungry,  ma'm'selle." 

"  Heavens !" 

Continuous  crunching,  while  the  child  knocks  the 
remaining  crust  against  the  wall  to  get  the  sand  out 
of  it,  the  dirt  of  the  paving-stone. 

"  What's  your  name  ?" 

"  Fouchette." 

"  Fouchette  ?    Fouchette  what  ?" 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  n 

"  Nothing,  ma'm'selle, — just  Fouchette." 

"  Where  do  you  live,  Fouchette  ?  Do  throw  that 
dirty  bread  away,  child !" 

"  Say,  now,  ma'm'selle,  do  you  see  anything  green 
in  my  eye  ?" 

The  young  woman  seriously  inspects  the  blue  eye 
that  is  rolled  up  at  her  and  shakes  her  head. 

"  N-no ;  I  don't  see  anything." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Fouchette,  continuing  her  attack 
on  the  slowly  dissolving  crust. 

"  Throw  it  away,  I  tell  you ! — I'll  run  and  get  you 
some, — that's  a  good  child !" 

Fouchette  stopped  suddenly  and  remained  immobile, 
regarding  her  interlocutor  sharply. 

"Truly?"  she  asked. 

"  Certainly." 

The  child  looked  at  what  remained  of  the  crust, 
hesitated,  sighed,  then  dropped  it  on  the  ground.  The 
young  woman  hastily  re-entered  the  house  and  pres- 
ently reappeared  with  a  huge  sandwich  with  meat  on 
a  liberal  scale. 

"  Oh,  how  good  you  are,  ma'm'selle !"  cried  Fou- 
chette. 

Her  blue  eyes  sparkled  with  pleasure, — her  young 
mouth  watered  as  the  sandwich  was  passed  between 
the  railing. 

"  What  is  that, — why,  there  is  blood  on  your  neck, 
*•  Fouchette!" 

The  child  felt  her  neck  with  her  hand  and  brought 
it  away. 

"  So  it  is,"  said  she,  sinking  her  teeth  into  the  sand- 
wich. 


12  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  Here, — come  closer, — turn  this  way.  It's  running 
down  now.  How  did  you  hurt  yourself?" 

"  Dame !    It  is  nothing,  ma'm'selle." 

"  Nothing!    You  are  just  black  and  blue!" 

"  Mostly  black,"  said  Fouchette.  The  world  looked 
ever  so  much  brighter. 

"  You've  been  fighting,"  suggested  the  young 
woman,  tentatively. 

"  No,  ma'm'selle." 

"  Then  somebody  struck  you." 

"  Quite  right,  ma'm'selle." 

This  was  delivered  with  such  an  air  of  nonchalance 
that  the  young  lady  smiled. 

"  You  speak  as  if  it  were  a  common  occurrence," 
she  observed. 

"  It  is,"  said  Fouchette,  with  a  desperate  swallow, — 
"  Podvin." 

"Po-Podvin?" 

"  Yes,  ma'm'selle." 

"  Person  you  live  with  ?" 

Fouchette  nodded, — she  had  her  mouth  full. 

"They  beat  you?" 

"  Most  every  day." 

"Why?" 

"  Er — exercise,  mostly,  I  think." 

The  half-sly,  half-humorous  squint  of  the  left  blue 
eye  set  the  sympathetic  young  woman  laughing  in 
spite  of  herself.  The  remarkable  precocity  of  these 
petites  miserables  of  the  slums  was  new  to  her. 

"  But  you  had  father  and  mother " 

"  I  don't  know,  ma'm'selle, — at  least  they  never 
showed  up." 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  13 

"  But,  my  child,  you  must  have  started " 

"  I  started  in  a  rag-heap,  ma'm'selle.  There's  where 
the  Podvin  found  me." 

"In  a  rag-heap!" 

"  Yes,  ma'm'selle, — so  they  say." 

"  But  don't  you  remember  anything  at  all  before 
that?" 

"  Precious  little.  Only  this :  that  I  came  a  long 
ways  off,  walking,  and  riding  in  market  carts,  and 
walking  some  more, — and  then  the  Podvin  found  me, 
— near  here, — and  here  I  am.  That's  all." 

"  What  does  Podvin  do  for  a  living?" 

"  Drinks." 

"Ah!    Andmadame?" 

"  Hammers  me." 

"And  you?" 

"Rags." 

"  Now,  Fouchette,  which  is  '  the'  Podvin?" 

"  Madame,  of  course !" 

The  young  woman  laughed  merrily,  and  Fouchette 
gave  forth  a  singular,  low,  unmusical  tinkle.  She  was 
astonished  that  the  young  lady  should  put  such  a  ques- 
tion, then  amused  as  she  thought  of  Mother  Podvin 
playing  second  to  anybody. 

"  What  a  lively  little  girl  you  are,  Fouchette !"  said 
her  questioner,  pleasantly. 

"  It's  the  fleas,  ma'm'selle." 

"W-wh-what?" 

"  I  sleep  with  Tartar." 

"  Who's  Tartar,  and  what " 

"  He's  the  dog,  ma'm'selle." 

"Heavens!" 


14  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  Oh,  he's  the  best  of  the  family,  ma'm'selle,  very 
sure !"  protested  Fouchette,  naively. 

"  No  doubt  of  it,  poor  child  1" 

"  Only  for  him  I'd  freeze  in  winter ;  and  sometimes 
he  divides  his  dinner  with  me — as  well  as  his  fleas — 
when  he  is  not  too  hungry,  you  know.  This  amuses 
the  Podvin  so  that  sometimes,  when  we  have  company, 
she  will  not  give  me  any  dinner,  so  I'll  have  to  beg  of 
Tartar.  And  we  have  lots  of  fun,  and  I  dance — 

"  You  dance  after  that?    Why— 

"  Oh,  I  love  to  dance,  ma'm'selle.    I  can — 

Fouchette  elevated  her  dirty  little  bare  foot  against 
the  railing  above  her  head  by  way  of  illustration; 
while,  half  shocked,  half  laughing,  the  other  hastily 
exclaimed, — 

"  La,  la,  la !    Put  it  down,  Fouchette !    Put  it  down !" 

A  restless  glance  up  and  down  the  road  and  back 
towards  the  house  seemed  to  relieve  the  young  woman 
materially ;  she  laughed  now  with  delightful  abandon. 

"  So  Tartar  and  you  are  good  friends  in  spite  of 
the— the " 

"  The  fleas, — yes,  ma'm'selle.  He  loves  me  and  me 
alone.  Nobody  dares  come  near  him  when  we  sleep 
— or  eat, — and  I  love  him  dearly.  Did  you  ever  love 
anybody,  ma'm'selle?" 

This  artless  question  appeared  to  take  the  young 
woman  by  surprise ;  for  she  grew  confused  and  quite 
red,  and  finally  told  little  Fouchette  to  "  run  along, 
now,  and  don't  be  silly." 

"Not  with  fleas, — oh,  no;  I  didn't  mean  that!" 
cried  the  child,  conscious  of  having  made  a  faux  pas, 
but  not  clear. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  15 

But  the  young  woman  was  already  flying  through 
the  flower-garden,  and  quickly  disappeared  around  the 
corner  of  the  house  without  once  looking  back. 

Fouchette  then  let  go  of  her  breath  and  heaved  a 
deep  sigh  as  she  turned  away. 

It  was  the  only  occasion  within  her  childish  recollec- 
tion when  one  of  her  own  sex  had  spoken  to  her  in 
kindness.  Now  and  then  she  had  dreamed  of  such  a 
thing  as  having  occurred  in  the  long  ago, — in  some 
other  world,  perhaps, — this  was  real,  tangible,  percep- 
tible to  the  eye  and  ear. 

"  Sweet  words 

Are  like  the  voices  of  returning  birds, 
Filling  the  soul  with  summer." 

For  the  moment  the  starved  soul  of  the  child  was 
filled  with  summer  softness,  as  she  slowly  returned 
along  the  route  she  had  recently  come,  thinking  of  the 
beautiful  young  lady  and  the  sensuous  odor  of  the 
flowers  which  had  penetrated  to  the  innermost  recesses 
of  her  being. 

As  she  neared  the  barriers,  however,  and  was  grad- 
ually recalled  to  the  harsh  realities  of  her  daily  envi- 
ronment, these  fleeting  dreams  had  disappeared  with 
the  rest,  leaving  the  old,  fixed  feelings  of  hopeless- 
ness and  sullen  combativeness.  With  this  revival  came 
the  pain  from  the  still  recent  blows  of  the  morning, 
temporarily  forgotten. 

The  barriers  at  Paris  have  long  been  the  popular 
haunts  of  poverty  and  crime, — though  their  moral 
conditions  have  been  greatly  modified  by  the  multi- 
tude of  tramways  that  afford  the  poor  of  Paris  more 


16  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

extended  outings.  The  barriers  run  along  the  line  of 
fortifications  and  form  the  "  octroi,"  or  tax  limit  of 
the  city.  These  big  iron  gates  of  the  barriers  intercept 
every  road  entering  Paris  and  are  manned  by  customs 
officials,  who  inspect  all  incoming  vehicles  and  pack- 
ages for  dutiable  goods. 

Within  the  barriers  is  Paris, — beyond  is  the  rest  of 
the  world.  Inside  are  the  police  agents, — outside  are 
the  gendarmes. 

Cheap  shows,  gypsy  camps,  merry-go-rounds,  and 
all  sorts  of  games  hover  about  the  barriers,  where  no 
special  tax  is  exacted  and  where  the  regulations  with 
reference  to  public  order  are  somewhat  lax.  They 
attract  noisy  and  unruly  crowds  on  Sundays  and  holi- 
days. A  once  popular  song  ran : 

"  Pour  rigoler  montons, 
Montons  a  la  barriere." 

Which  means,  that  to  have  a  good  time  let  us  go  up 
to  the  barrier. 

These  resorts  are  infested  by  the  human  vermin  that 
prey  on  the  ignorant, — thieves,  pickpockets,  robbers, 
and  cutthroats  of  every  description.  This  very  wood 
of  Vincennes  near  at  hand,  now  the  glory  of  picnickers, 
was  for  centuries  the  home  and  stronghold  of  the  robber 
and  professional  assassin.  And  it  is  a  rash  man  at  this 
day  who  would  voluntarily  risk  his  purse  and  life  by 
being  found  alone  in  the  neighborhood  after  nightfall. 

Fouchette's  territory  lay  chiefly  in  the  streets  and 
suburbs  of  Charenton.  To  cover  it  she  was  compelled 
to  get  out  before  daylight.  If  she  had  good  luck  and 
brought  in  anything  valuable  she  got  an  extra  allow- 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  17 

ance  of  soup,  sometimes  with  a  scrap  of  meat,  to  be 
invariably  divided  between  her  and  Tartar,  or  a  small 
glass  of  red  wine;  if  her  find  was  poor  her  fare  was 
reduced,  and  instead  of  food  she  often  received  blows. 

These  blows,  however,  were  never  administered  in 
the  sight  of  the  dog,  Tartar, — only  once,  when  the 
savage  animal  resented  this  treatment  of  his  side  part- 
ner by  burying  his  teeth  in  Mother  Podvin's  arm. 

Little  Fouchette  remembered  this  friendly  interven- 
tion by  bringing  home  any  choice  bits  of  meat  found  in 
the  house  garbage  during  her  morning  tour.  Mother 
Podvin  remembered  it  by  thereafter  thumping  Fou- 
chette out  of  sight  of  her  canine  friend  and  protector. 
The  infuriated  woman  would  have  slaughtered  the 
offending  spaniel  on  the  spot,  only  Tartar  was  of  infi- 
nite service  to  her  husband  in  his  business.  She  dared 
not,  so  she  took  it  out  on  Fouchette. 

Monsieur  Podvin's  business  was  not  confined  wholly 
to  drinking,  though  it  was  perhaps  natural  that  Fou- 
chette should  have  reached  that  conclusion,  since  she 
had  seen  him  in  no  other  occupation.  Monsieur  Pod- 
vin, like  many  others  of  the  mysterious  inhabitants  of 
the  barriers,  worked  nights.  Not  regularly,  but  as 
occasion  invited  him  or  necessity  drove  him.  On  such 
occasions  Tartar  was  brought  forth  from  the  cellar, 
where  he  reposed  peacefully  by  the  side  of  his  little 
protegee,  and  accompanied  his  master.  As  Tartar  was 
held  in  strict  confinement  during  the  day,  he  was  in- 
variably delighted  when  the  call  of  duty  gave  him  this 
outing.  And  as  he  returned  at  all  sorts  of  hours  in 
the  early  morning,  his  frail  partner  and  bedfellow 
never  felt  that  it  was  necessary  to  sit  up  for  him. 

2 


i8  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

Nevertheless,  Fouchette  was  quite  nervous,  and  some- 
times sleepless,  down  there  among  the  wine-bottles  in 
the  dark,  on  her  pallet  of  straw,  when  she  awoke  to 
find  her  hairy  protector  missing ;  though,  usually,  she 
knew  of  his  absence  only  by  his  return,  when  he  licked 
her  face  affectionately  before  curling  down  closely  as 
possible  by  her  side. 

Now,  Monsieur  Podvin's  business,  ostensibly,  was 
that  of  keeping  a  low  cabaret  labelled  "  Rendez-Vous 
pour  Cochers."  It  might  have  been  more  appropri- 
ately called  a  rendezvous  for  thieves,  though  this  seems 
rather  hypercritical  when  one  knows  the  cabbies  of  the 
barriers.  But  the  cabaret  was  really  run  by  Madame 
Podvin,  which  robs  monsieur  of  the  moral  responsi- 
bilities. ' 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Monsieur  Podvin  was  a  mighty 
hunter,  like  Nimrod  and  Philippe  Augustus,  and  other 
distinguished  predecessors.  His  field  of  operations 
was  the  wood  of  Vincennes,  where  Philippe  was  wont 
to  follow  the  chase  some  hundreds  of  years  ago,  and 
wherein  a  long  line  of  royal  chasseurs  have  subse- 
quently amused  themselves. 

With  the  simple  statement  that  they  were  all  hunters 
and  robbers,  from  Augustus  to  Podvin,  inclusive,  the 
resemblance  ends;  for  the  nobles  and  their  followers 
followed  the  stag  and  wild  boar,  whereas  Monsieur 
Podvin  was  a  hunter  of  men. 

At  first  blush  the  latter  would  appear  to  be  higher 
game  and  a  more  dangerous  amusement.  Not  at  all. 
For  the  men  thus  run  down  by  Monsieur  Podvin  and 
his  faithful  dog,  Tartar,  were  little  above  the  beasts 
from  self-indulgence  at  any  time,  and  were  wholly 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  19 

devoid  of  even  the  lowest  animal  instincts  when  cap- 
tured*. They  were  the  victims  of  their  own  bestiality 
before  they  became  the  victims  of  Podvin. 

Every  gala-day  in  the  popular  wood  of  Vincennes 
left  a  certain  amount  of  human  flotsam  and  jetsam 
lying  around  under  the  trees  and  in  the  dark  shadows, 
helpless  from  a  combination  of  wood  alcohol  and 
water  treated  with  coloring  matter  and  called  "  wine." 
It  was  Monsieur  Podvin's  business  to  hunt  these  un- 
fortunates up  and  to  relieve  them  of  any  valuables 
of  which  they  might  be  possessed,  and  which  they  had 
no  use  for  for  the  time  being.  It  was  quite  as  inspirit- 
ing and  ennobling  as  going  over  a  battlefield  and  rob- 
bing the  dead,  and  about  as  safe  for  the  operators. 
The  intelligence  of  Tartar  and  his  indefatigable  indus- 
try lent  an  additional  zest  to  the  hunt  and  made  it  at 
once  easy  and  remunerative.  Tartar  pointed  and 
flushed  the  prey;  all  his  master  had  to  do  was  to  go 
through  the  victims,  who  were  usually  too  helpless  to 
object.  If,  as  was  sometimes  the  case,  one  so  far  for- 
got himself  as  to  do  so,  the  sight  of  a  gleaming  knife- 
blade  generally  reconciled  the  victim  to  the  peaceful 
surrender  of  his  property.  On  special  occasions  Mon- 
sieur Podvin  was  assisted  by  a  patron  of  the  Rendez- 
Vous  pour  Cochers;  but  he  usually  worked  alone, 
being  of  a  covetous  nature  and  unwilling  to  share 
profits.  When  accompanied,  it  was  with  the  under- 
standing that  the  booty  was  to  be  divided  into  equal 
shares,  Tartar  counting  as  an  individual  and  coming 
in  on  equal  terms,  and  one  share  on  account  of  Fou- 
chette, — all  of  which  went  to  Monsieur  Podvin. 

For,  without  any  knowledge  or  reward,  Fouchette 


20  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

was  made  to  do  the  most  dangerous  part  of  the  busi- 
ness,— which  lay  in  the  disposal  of  the  proceeds  oT  the 
chase.  It  was  innocently  carried  by  her  in  her  rag- 
basket  to  the  receiver  inside  the  barriers. 

Where  adults  would  have  been  suspected  and  prob- 
ably searched,  first  by  the  customs  officers  and  then 
by  the  police,  Fouchette  went  unchallenged.  Her 
towering  basket,  under  which  bent  the  frail  little  half- 
starved  figure,  marked  her  scarcely  more  conspicu- 
ously than  her  ready  wit  and  cheerful  though  coarse 
retorts  to  would-be  sympathizers.  Her  load  was  deliv- 
ered to  those  who  examined  its  contents  out  of  her 
sight.  The  price  went  back  by  another  carrier, — a 
patron  of  the  Rendez-Vous  pour  Cochers.  "  La  petite 
chiffonniere"  was  widely  known  in  the  small  world  of 
the  Porte  de  Charenton. 

As  for  Fouchette, — well,  she  has  already,  in  her  la- 
conic way,  given  about  all  that  she  knew  of  her  earlier 
history.  Picked  up  in  a  rag-heap  by  a  chiffonniere  of 
the  barrier,  she  had  succeeded  to  a  brutal  life  that  had 
in  five  years  reduced  her  to  the  physical  level  of  the 
spaniel,  Tartar.  In  fact,  her  position  was  really  in- 
ferior, since  the  dog  was  never  beaten  and  had  always 
plenty  to  eat. 

Instead  of  killing  her,  as  would  have  been  the  fate 
of  one  of  the  lower  animals  subjected  to  the  same 
treatment,  all  this  had  seemed  to  toughen  the  child, — 
to  render  her  physically  and  morally  as  hard  as  nails. 

It  would  be  too  much  or  too  little — according  to  the 
point  of  view — to  assume  that  Fouchette  was  patient 
under  her  yoke  and  that  she  went  about  her  tasks  with 
the  docility  of  a  well-trained  animal.  On  the  contrary, 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  21 

she  not  only  rebelled  in  spirit,  but  she  often  resisted 
with  all  her  feeble  strength,  fighting,  feet,  hands,  and 
teeth,  with  feline  ferocity.  Having  been  brought  to 
the  level  of  brutes,  she  had  become  a  brute  in  instinct, 
in  her  sensibility  to  kindness,  her  pig-headedness,  re- 
sentment of  injury,  and  dogged  resistance. 

On  her  ninth  birthday — which,  however,  was  un- 
known— Monsieur  Podvin,  over  his  fourth  bottle, 
offered  to  put  her  up  against  the  dog  of  his  convive  of 
the  moment,  so  much  was  he  impressed  with  Fou- 
chette's  fighting  talent.  Fouchette,  who  was  serving 
the  wine,  was  not  unmindful  of  the  implied  compli- 
ment. She  glanced  at  the  animal  and  then  at  its 
owner  with  a  bitter  smile  that  in  her  catlike  jaws 
seemed  almost  a  snarl, — 

"  I'd  much  rather  fight  le  Cochon,"  said  she. 

"  Ho !  ho !  ho !"  roared  the  man,  who  was  a  dirty 
ruffian  of  two  hundred  pounds,  mostly  alcohol,  and 
who  enjoyed  the  fitting  sobriquet  of  "  le  Cochon," 
from  his  appearance  and  characteristic  grunt. 

"  Voila !"  cried  Monsieur  Podvin ;  "  that's  Fou- 
chette 1" 

"  Pardieu !  but  what  a  little  scorcher !"  exclaimed 
the  ruffian,  rather  admiringly. 

"  The  dog  is  honest  and  decent,"  said  the  child, 
turning  her  steely  blue  eyes  on  the  man. 

"  Fouchette !" 

The  peremptory  voice  was  that  of  "  the"  Podvin 
behind  the  zinc.  Such  plain  talk — any  talk  at  all  about 
"  honesty"  and  "  decency" — at  the  Rendez-Vous  pour 
Cochers  was  interdicted.  And  had  the  girl  noted  the 
look  which  followed  her  retreating  figure  she  might 


22  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

have  gone  abroad  the  next  morning  with  less  confi- 
dence. 

From  that  time  on  these  two,  ruffian  and  child, 
snapped  at  each  other  whenever  they  came  in  contact, 
— which,  as  the  man  was  an  habitue  of  the  place,  and 
occasional  assistant  of  Monsieur  Podvin  in  his  business 
of  scouring  the  wood  of  Vincennes  for  booty,  was 
pretty  nearly  every  day.  For  in  addition  to  her  labors 
as  a  rag-picker  Fouchette  was  compelled  to  wait  upon 
customers  in  the  wine-shop  and  run  errands  and  per- 
form pretty  much  all  the  work  of  housekeeping  for  the 
Podvins.  Her  foraging  expeditions  merely  filled  in 
the  time  when  customers  were  not  expected. 

Strange  as  it  may  appear,  Fouchette  liked  this  extra 
hour  or  so  abroad  better  than  any  other  duty  of  the 
day, — it  was  freedom  and  independence.  With  her 
high  pannier  strapped  to  her  slender  back  and  iron 
hook  in  hand  she  roamed  about  the  streets  of  Charen- 
ton,  sometimes  crossing  over  through  ancient  Con- 
flans  and  coming  home  by  the  Marne  and  Seine.  There 
were  only  footpads,  low-browed  rascals,  thieves,  and 
belated  robbers  about  at  this  hour,  before  the  trams 
began  to  make  their  trips  to  and  from  Paris,  but  these 
people  never  disturbed  the  petite  chiffonniere,  save  to 
sometimes  exchange  the  foul  witticisms  of  the  slums, 
in  which  contests  the  ready  tongue  and  extensive  vo- 
cabulary of  little  Fouchette  invariably  left  a  track  of 
good-humor.  They  knew  she  hadn't  a  sou,  and,  be- 
sides, was  one  of  their  class. 

Fouchette  was  a  shining  example  of  what  environ- 
ment can  make  of  any  human  being,  taken  sufficiently 
young  and  having  no  vacation. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  23 

Up  to  this  particular  morning  Fouchette  had  ac- 
cepted her  position  in  life  philosophically  as  a  neces- 
sary condition,  and  with  no  more  consideration  of  the 
high  and  mighty  of  this  world  than  the  high  and 
mighty  had  for  her.  Slowly  and  by  insensible  de- 
grees, since  she  was  too  young  to  mark  the  phenomena 
in  any  case,  she  had  been  forged  and  hammered  into 
a  living  piece  of  moral  obliquity, — and  yet  the  very 
first  contact  with  an  innocent  mind  and  kindly  sympa- 
thy awoke  in  her  childish  breast  a  subtle  consciousness 
that  something  was  wrong. 

She  fell  asleep  later,  worn  out  with  toil  and  sore 
from  bruises,  her  thin  arm  flung  across  Tartar's  neck, 
to  dream  of  a  plump  young  face,  a  pair  of  big,  dark, 
soulful  eyes  that  searched  and  found  her  heart.  The 
noise  of  the  revelling  robbers  above  her  faded  into 
one  sweet,  deep,  mellow  voice  that  was  music  to  her 
ears.  And  the  powerful  odors  that  impregnated  the 
atmosphere  of  the  cellar  and  rendered  it  foul  to  suffo- 
cation— dampness  and  dog  and  dregs  of  wine,  and 
garlic  and  decaying  vegetables — became  the  languor- 
ous breath  of  June  flowers. 

Ah!  the  beautiful  young  lady!  The  beautiful 
flowers ! 

Their  perfume  seemed  to  choke  her,  like  the  deadly 
tuberoses  piled  upon  a  coffin. 

She  tried  to  cry  out,  but  her  mouth  was  crowded 
full  of  something,  and  she  awoke  to  find  herself  in  the 
brutal  hands  of  some  one  in  the  darkness.  She  kicked 
and  scratched  and  struggled  in  vain,  to  be  quickly  van- 
quished by  a  brutish  blow. 

Tartar!    Tartar! 


24  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

Oh,  if  Tartar  were  only  there ! 

When  she  came  to  herself  she  was  conscious  of  being 
carried  in  her  own  basket  on  the  back  of  one  who 
stepped  heavily  and  somewhat  uncertainly  along  the 
road. 

She  was  doubled  up  like  a  half-shut  jack-knife,  her 
feet  and  head  uppermost,  and  had  great  difficulty  in 
breathing  by  reason  of  her  cramped  position  and  the 
ill-smelling  rags  with  which  she  was  covered.  Be- 
sides which,  she  felt  sick  from  the  cruel  blow  in  her 
stomach.  i 

Yet  her  senses  were  keenly  alert. 

She  was  well  aware  who  had  her ;  for  the  man  gave 
out  his  characteristic  grunt  with  every  misstep,  and 
there  was  no  one  else  in  the  world  likely  to  do  her 
serious  physical  injury. 

She  knew  that  it  was  still  dark,  both  from  the  way 
the  man  walked  and  from  the  cool  dampness  of  the 
atmosphere  with  which  she  was  familiar. 

Yes,  it  was  le  Cochon. 

She  knew  him  for  an  escaped  convict,  for  a  mur- 
derer as  well  as  a  robber,  and  that  he  would  slit  a 
throat  for  twenty  sous  if  there  were  fair  promise  of 
immunity. 

She  felt  instinctively  that  she  was  lost. 

All  at  once  the  man  stopped,  went  on,  paused  again. 

Then  she  heard  other  footsteps.  They  grew  louder. 
They  were  evidently  approaching.  They  were  the 
heavy,  hob-nailed  shoes  of  some  laborer  on  his  way 
to  work. 

Her  heart  stood  still  for  a  few  moments  as  she  lis- 
tened, then  beat  wildly  with  renewed  hope. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  25 

If  she  could  only  cry  out ;  but  the  rag  that  filled  her 
mouth  made  giving  the  alarm  impossible. 

Finally,  after  some  hesitation,  her  abductor  moved 
on  as  if  to  meet  the  coming  footsteps,  slowly,  and  lean- 
ing far  over  now  and  then,  in  apparent  attempt  to  coun- 
terfeit the  occupation  of  a  rag-picker.  And  at  such 
moments  the  child  felt  that  she  was  standing  on  the 
back  of  her  neck. 

The  heavy  tramp  of  the  stranger  grew  nearer — was 
upon  them. 

"  Bonjour!"  called  out  a  cheerful,  manly  voice. 

"  Bonjour,  monsieur!"  replied  le  Cochon,  humbly. 

"  You  are  abroad  early  this  morning." 

"  It  is  necessary,  if  an  honest  chiffonnier  would  live 
these  times." 

"  Possible.    Good  luck  to  you." 

"  Thanks,  monsieur." 

The  steps  had  never  paused  and  were  quickly  grow- 
ing fainter  down  the  road,  while  the  young  heart 
within  the  basket  grew  fainter  and  fainter  with  the 
fading  sounds. 

This  temporary  hope  thus  crushed  was  more  cruel 
than  her  former  despair. 

Her  bearer  uttered  a  low  volley  of  horrible  impre- 
cations directed  towards  the  unknown. 

He  stopped  suddenly,  and,  unstrapping  the  basket 
from  his  shoulders,  placed  it  on  the  ground. 

Fouchette  smelled  the  morning  vapors  of  the  river; 
discerned  now  the  distinct  gurgle  of  the  flood. 

As  the  robber  took  the  rags  from  the  basket  and 
pulled  her  roughly  forth,  the  full  significance  of  her 
perilous  situation  rushed  upon  her.  She  trembled  so 


26  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

that  she  could  scarcely  stand, — would  have  toppled 
over  the  edge  of  the  quai  but  for  the  strong  arm  of  le 
Cochon,  who  restrained  her. 

"  Not  yet,  petite,"  said  he. 

And  he  began  to  strap  the  basket  upon  her  young 
shoulders. 

"  Pardieu !  we  must  regard  conventionalities,"  he 
added,  with  devilish  malignity. 

It  was  early  gray  of  morning,  and  a  mist  hung  over 
the  dark  waters  of  the  Seine.  No  attempt  hacl  been 
made  to  obstruct  her  vision,  which,  long  habituated  to 
the  hour,  took  in  the  road,  the  stone  quai,  the  boats 
moored  not  far  away,  the  human  monster  at  her  side, 
all  at  a  single  sweeping  glance. 

Her  feet  and  arms  were  bound,  the  gag  was  still  in 
her  mouth, — there  was  no  escape,  no  succor. 

There  was  the  river ;  there  was  le  Cochon. 

Nothing  more. 

What  more,  indeed,  was  necessary  to  complete  the 
picture  ? 

Death. 

Nothing  was  easier.  No  conclusion  more  mathe- 
matically certain. 

With  his  knife  between  his  teeth  the  assassin  hastily 
adjusted  the  straps  under  her  arms.  It  was  but  the 
work  of  half  a  minute  from  the  time  he  had  stopped, 
though  to  the  terror-stricken  child  it  seemed  an  age 
of  torment. 

The  rags  were  packed  tightly  down  in  the  bottom  of 
the  basket. 

"  It'll  do  for  a  sinker,"  said  the  man. 

Then  he  cut  the  thongs  that  held  her  arms,  severed 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  27 

the  ligament  that  bound  her  feet,  and  with  one  hand 
removed  the  cloth  from  her  mouth,  while  with  the 
other  he  suddenly  pushed  his  victim  over  the  edge  of 
the  stone  quai. 

"Voila!" 

Short  as  was  the  opportunity,  Fouchette  gave  one 
terrified  shriek  as  she  went  over  the  brink, — a  shriek 
that  pierced  the  river  mists  and  reverberated  from  the 
stone  walls  and  parapets  and  went  ringing  up  and 
down  the  surface  of  the  swiftly  swirling  stream. 

Again,  as  she  reappeared,  battling  with  the  murky 
waters  with  desperate  stroke  and  splash,  her  childish 
voice  rose, — 

"Tartar!    Tartar!" 

And  yet  again,  choking  with  the  flood, — 

"  Tar— Tar— tar !" 

It  was  the  last  thought, — the  last  appeal, — this  de- 
spairing cry  for  the  only  one  on  earth  she  loved, — the 
only  being  on  earth  who  loved  her. 


CHAPTER   II 

THE  piercing  cry  of  Fouchette  seemed  yet  to  linger 
in  the  misty  morning  air,  thrilling  the  distant  ear, 
vibrating  upon  the  unstrung  nerves  of  the  outcasts 
beneath  the  far-away  bridges,  borne  upon  the  surface 
of  the  waters,  when  it  was  answered  out  of  the  dark- 
ness by  a  sharp,  shrill  note  of  sympathy. 

Those  who  have  heard  the  wild  hyena  in  his  native 
fastnesses  responding  to  the  appeal  of  its  imperilled 
young  might  have  understood  this  half-human,  half- 
savage  cry  of  the  roused  animal. 

And  almost  simultaneously  came  the  swift  rush  of 
feet  that  seemed  to  claw  the  granite  into  flying  electric 
sparks. 

The  repulsive  face  of  the  convict  murderer  turned 
pale  at  the  sound,  and  at  the  sight  of  the  glowing  eye- 
balls his  ugly  teeth  clattered  against  each  other. 
Nevertheless,  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  made 
him  crouch  low,  deadly  knife  in  hand,  to  receive  the 
expected  attack. 

At  the  sight  of  le  Cochon  the  dog  emitted  a  howl  of 
wrath.  With  the  marvellous  judgment,  however,  of 
the  trained  animal  that  will  not  be  turned  from  the  trail 
of  a  deer  by  the  scent  of  skunk,  this  sight  scarcely 
checked  his  plunge. 

Tartar's  divination  was  unerring.  He  wasted  no 
effort  in  battling  with  the  current  or  paddling  around 
in  a  circle,  but  turned  at  once  and  swam  rapidly  with 
the  stream.  He  spent  no  breath  in  useless  vocifera- 
tion. All  his  canine  strength  was  put  forth  to  an  end. 
And  these  instincts  were  quickly  rewarded  by  the  sight 
28 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  29 

of  a  strange  object  floating  ahead  of  him, — something 
a  little  higher  than  the  water. 

The  fiend  who  had  packed  the  old  rags  into  the 
bottom  of  the  pannier  with  the  double  motive  of  indi- 
cating an  accident  and  of  carrying  the  child  under  be- 
neath its  weight  had  overdone  the  trick.  For  the  rags, 
once  soaked,  proved  so  much  heavier  than  the  frail 
body  that  it  turned  turtle  and  threw  the  child  face 
upward  and  partially  above  the  surface.  The  load 
instead  of  sinking  buoyed  her  up,  and,  being  strapped 
securely  to  it,  she  could  not  fall  off.  Whereas  if  she 
had  simply  been  thrown  into  the  river  without  these 
precautions,  she  would  have  gone  to  the  bottom. 

With  a  succession  of  low  whines  now  that  were 
almost  human  sobs,  the  excited  spaniel  quickened  his 
stroke,  if,  indeed,  such  a  thing  were  possible,  and  re- 
doubled his  energies.  He  saw  that  it  was  the  body  of 
his  beloved  mate. 

But  when  he  reached  the  floating  object  and  seized 
it  with  his  teeth  it  was  to  find  that  he  was  powerless 
to  drag  it  ashore.  In  vain  he  struggled  and  splashed 
and  tugged  at  it.  The  load  was  too  much  for  him. 
Almost  frantic  from  disappointment,  he  soon  became 
exhausted.  He  seemed  to  realize  that  he  would  not 
only  be  unable  to  save  his  little  mistress,  but  was  likely 
to  perish  with  her.  It  was  not  long  before  his  fight 
ceased.  He  hung  on  by  his  teeth  now  to  keep  from 
sinking. 

Thus  the  combination,  waterlogged  basket,  uncon- 
scious girl,  and  exhausted  dog,  floated  silently  along, 
under  the  National  Bridge,  past  the  bridge  of  Tolbiac, 
and  came  opposite  the  great  freight-yards  of  the  Or- 


30  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

leans  Railway  on  the  left  and  the  greater  Entrepots 
de  Bercy  on  the  right. 

The  homeless  of  both  sexes  that  swarm  the  shelter 
of  the  bridges  of  the  Seine  were  just  awakening  to  life 
and  a  renewed  sense  of  misery.  The  thin  fog  had 
begun  to  lift.  The  sharper  eyes  of  the  dog  discovered 
the  proximity  of  human  beings  before  the  latter  could 
see  him,  and  he  let  go  of  his  floater  long  enough  to 
utter  a  few  sharp  yelps  of  distress. 

A  tramp,  wider  awake  or  less  benumbed  by  liquor 
than  his  fellows,  heard  the  sounds  from  the  river  and 
called  the  attention  of  companions. 

A  dog  in  distress, — it  was  enough  to  rouse  the  sym- 
pathetic blood  of  any  true  Parisian.  The  more  active 
of  the  men  ran  vociferously  along  the  bank,  raising  the 
watchmen  of  either  shore. 

Numerous  barges  and  tugs  lay  moored  along  the 
Quai  de  la  Gare.  From  these  lights  began  to  show. 
Men  sprang  up  as  if  by  magic.  Those  on  one  side  of 
the  river  shouted  to  those  on  the  other  side  to  find  out 
what  was  the  matter,  and  the  other  side  shouted  back 
that  they  didn't  know, — but  it  was  somebody  or  some- 
thing in  the  river.  As  there  is  always  "  somebody"  in 
the  river,  the  idea  did  not  attract  so  much  attention  as 
the  possibility  that  it  was  "  something." 

When  it  was  ascertained  that  it  was  a  dog — which 
followed  upon  additional  pathetic  appeals  from  the 
water — there  was  wild  excitement  all  along  the  line. 
Men  tumbled  over  barrels  and  boxes,  and  ran  plump 
up  against  walls,  and  fell  into  pits,  and  even  into  the 
river  itself,  in  their  anxiety  to  keep  pace  with  the 
sounds  from  the  fog. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  31 

Others  began  hastily  to  get  out  boats,  and  ran  about 
with  lanterns  and  oars  and  ends  of  rope  and  other  life- 
saving  paraphernalia.  These  boats  put  off  simulta- 
neously from  either  side,  and  contained  police  agents, 
bargemen,  roustabouts,  watchmen,  watermen,  and 
bums.  As  the  inhabitants  of  the  Long  Island  shore 
at  the  cry  of  "  A  whale !"  man  the  boats  and  race  to 
get  in  the  first  harpoon,  so  these  rivermen  of  the  Seine 
now  pulled  for  a  drowning  dog. 

The  conflicting  sounds  of  human  voices,  the  grating 
of  boats  against  the  stones,  the  rattle  of  chains,  the 
splash  of  oars,  were  plainly  heard  and  as  plainly  un- 
derstood by  the  intelligent  animal  now  struggling  with 
death.  Through  his  set  jaws,  which  still  clung  to  the 
child's  clothing,  or,  rather,  through  his  nose,  there 
came  occasional  whines  of  distress  that  were  almost 
heart-rending  in  their  intensity. 

These  last  faint  appeals  for  help  directed  the  res- 
cuers. 

"  Mon  Dieu !"  exclaimed  a  waterman,  nearing  the 
spot  and  rowing  alongside. 

"  It's  a  child !"  screamed  another. 

"  No,  it's  a  dog,"  said  a  third. 

The  light  was  still  uncertain  and  objects  confusing. 

"  It's  dog  and  child " 

"It's  dead!" 

"  Not  yet,  monsieur." 

"  I  mean  the  child." 

"Dead?" 

"  No ;  the  dog  has  held  its  face  above  water." 

"  The  dog, — quick !   he's  sinking !" 

"Here!" 


32  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"A  rope!" 

"There!" 

"  No,  no !    Catch  him  by  the  neck !" 

"  Save  the  child  first !" 

"I've  got  him!" 

"  And  I've  got  her !" 

"  Hang  on  to  the  dog !  Pull  him  into  the  boat, 
stupid!" 

"  Why,  she's  strapped  down  to  something !" 

"  What  is  this,  anyhow?" 

"  Pull  the  dog  loose,  man ! — he'll  drown  her  yet !" 

"There!" 

"Your  knife,  Pierre!" 

"Hold!" 

This  was  from  the  river  policeman,  who  held  up  his 
bull's-eye  lantern  so  that  it  threw  a  yellow  glare  on 
the  white  upturned  face. 

"  She's  dead,  poor  little  thing !" 

"  We  shall  bring  in  the  body  just  as  it  is,"  said  the 
official. 

"  But " 

"That's  the  law!" 

"  Tonnerre !  Is  it  the  law  to  let  a  child  drown  in 
one's  sight?" 

"  Oh,  she's  dead  enough,  I'm  afraid." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that." 

"  Bring  it  in  just  as  it  is,"  repeated  the  official,  ad- 
justing a  rope  to  the  mysterious  thing  beneath  the  body. 

"  Sacre  bleu !    And  if  she's  alive?" 

"  Poor  doggie !    He's  about  done  for  too." 

And  so  it  really  seemed,  for  Tartar  lay  in  the  bottom 
of  the  boat,  still  breathing,  but  in  convulsive  gasps. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  33 

In  his  teeth  remained  a  portion  of  the  child's  clothing, 
torn  away  with  him.  He  had  hung  to  his  charge  to 
the  last.  His  jaws  had  never  relaxed. 

In  the  mean  time  the  whole  fleet  with  its  spoils  had 
been  floating  steadily  down  with  the  powerful  current. 
Amidst  the  wrangle  of  contending  voices,  and  with 
some  angry  altercation,  the  police  boat  and  its. accom- 
panying consorts  were  towing  the  yet  unknown  object 
and  its  silent  burden  towards  the  shore. 

This  was  not  an  easy  job,  since  the  river  becomes 
more  narrow  as  it  threads  the  city,  and  the  current 
proportionately  stronger,  and  the  undertow  caught  at 
the  low-hanging  mass  as  if  determined  to  bear  it  down 
to  the  morgue  just  below.  They  had  been  carried 
under  the  Pont  de  Bercy  and  were  drawing  near  the 
Quai  d'Austerlitz.  Finally  they  got  ashore  at  the  Gare 
d'Orleans. 

"  Parbleu !   it's  a  little  chiffonniere !" 

"  Truly !" 

"  She  has  evidently  fallen  into  the  river  with  her 
basket  on  her  back." 

They  had  now,  in  the  rapidly  growing  daylight,  dis- 
covered the  character  of  the  object  that  held  her  in  its 
embrace.  In  fact,  when  half  a  dozen  stout  fellows  had 
attempted  to  lift  the  whole  thing  out  of  the  water  the 
rags  had  dropped  out  unseen  and  were  borne  away  by 
the  current,  leaving  the  light  empty  pannier  and  the 
body  of  the  child  in  their  hands.  And  the  men  mar- 
velled at  the  resistance  they  had  encountered. 

A  messenger  had  been  at  once  despatched  for  medi- 
cal assistance.  The  great  hospital  of  Salpetriere  was 
near  at  hand. 

3 


34  MLLK  FOUCHETTE 

"  May  as  well  take  her  to  the  morgue,"  muttered 
one. 

"  Soon  enough, — soon  enough,"  replied  the  river 
policeman.  "  Follow  the  custom." 

Notwithstanding  the  general  opinion  that  it  was  too 
late,  a  rough  boatman  had  torn  off  a  section  of  his 
flannel  shirt  and  was  chafing  the  cold  little  han4s,  while 
another  rubbed  the  legs  and  a  third  tried  to  restore 
respiration.  These  people  were  familiar  with  cases  of 
drowning,  and  knew  the  best  and  simplest  immediate 
first  aid  by  heart. 

To  their  very  great  surprise  a  few  minutes  sufficed 
to  show  that  the  child  was  still  alive.  By  the  time  the 
doctor  arrived  she  gave  decided  signs  of  returning 
animation.  Under  the  influence  of  his  restoratives  she 
opened  her  eyes. 

"  Tartar !"  she  gasped. 

"  What's  that,  little  one  ?"  inquired  the  doctor,  bend- 
ing low  over  her.  She  still  lay  on  the  stone  quai,  a 
laborer's  coat  beneath  her  extended  figure. 

"  Tar — Tartar,"  she  repeated,  again  closing  her  eyes. 
"  Oh,  mon  Dieu !  I  remember  now.  That  wretch ! — 
it  could  not  have  been !" 

"  Maybe  it's  her  dog,"  suggested  a  man. 

"  Yes— Tartar— 

"  There,  my  child, — don't!    Is  it  the  dog?" 

"  Yes— tell  me " 

"  Oh,  he's  all  right.— Say !" 

He  hailed  the  group  gathered  about  the  other  victim 
of  the  river. 

"How's  the  dog?" 

"  All  right,  Monsieur  le  Docteur !" 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  35 

Fouchette  heard  and  brightened  perceptibly.  The 
doctor  increased  the  effect  by  observing  that  the  dog 
was  coming  around  all  right. 

"  But  he's  had  a  pretty  close  call." 

"  So  it  was  Tartar,  after  all,"  whispered  Fouchette. 
"  Dear  Tartar !" 

"  A  brave  dog,  Tartar, — stuck  to  you  to  the  last," 
put  in  the  policeman. 

"Truly!" 

Half  a  dozen  men  cried  at  once,  "  Vive  Tartar !" 
with  the  enthusiasm  of  true  Frenchmen. 

And  if  a  dog  ever  did  deserve  the  encomiums  that 
were  showered  upon  him  Tartar  certainly  was  that 
dog. 

As  soon  as  Fouchette  began  to  revive,  a  stalwart 
bargewoman,  awakened  in  her  little  cubby  by  the  cries 
of  the  men  in  the  vicinity,  and  who  had  hastily  turned 
out  to  see  for  herself,  had  disappeared  for  a  moment 
in  her  floating  home,  and  shortly  afterwards  returned 
with  some  substantial  clothing  borrowed  from  her 
family  wardrobe. 

"  How  thin  the  child  is !"  she  remarked,  as  she  sub- 
stituted the  dry  clothing  on  the  spot. 

"  Thin !"  growled  a  bystander ;  "  she  had  to  be 
mighty  thin  to  come  down  the  river  on  an  empty  bas- 
ket!" 

"  You  see,  she  must  have  fallen  in  with  the  basket 
on  her  back " 

"  I  was  pushed  in,"  corrected  Fouchette. 

"  Pushed  into  the  river  ?" 

"What's  that?" 

"Who  did  it,  child?" 


36  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"Impossible!" 

"  There  is  some  devilish  crime  here." 

"  It's  a  case  for  the  police." 

This  last  observation  came  from  the  policeman  as 
he  brought  out  his  note-book,  while  a  buzz  of  indigna- 
tion ran  through  the  crowd. 

Fouchette  heard  these  mutterings  and  saw  the  in- 
quisitorial pencil  of  the  official  in  uniform.  He  had 
shut  off  his  light  with  a  snap. 

At  this  moment  Tartar,  having  heard  the  voice  of 
his  mistress,  had  struggled  to  his  feet,  and  now 
dragged  himself  over  to  where  she  lay.  The  crowd 
separated  for  him. 

"  Ah !  Tartar !"  exclaimed  Fouchette,  affectionately, 
raising  her  hand  to  his  head. 

With  a  whimper  of  joy  the  noble  animal  licked  her 
hand,  her  face  and  neck,  wagging  his  bedraggled  tail 
with  intense  satisfaction,  winding  up  this  demonstra- 
tion by  lying  down  by  her  side  as  closely  as  he  could 
get,  and  giving  a  long  breath,  which  in  a  human  being 
would  be  called  a  sigh. 

The  act  moved  the  coarse  bargewoman  to  tears, 
while  the  men  turned  away  to  hide  their  emo- 
tion. 

The  silence  was  profound, — the  testimony  of  a  sen- 
timent too  deep  for  mere  words. 

The  police  agent  was  the  first  to  come  to  the  practi- 
cal point  in  the  situation.  The  violence  phase  of  the 
case  made  him  consequential.  It  would  invite  the  at- 
tention of  his  superiors.  It  would  get  his  name  in  the 
daily  journals. 

"  What  is  your  name,  child  ?" 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  37 

The  intended  victim  of  police  interrogatory  closed 
her  eyes  without  answering. 

"  You  were  thrown  into  the  river.  It  is  necessary 
for  us  to  know  the  name  of  the  person  who  committed 
this  outrage.  If  you  do  not  know,  it  is  our  business  to 
find  out.  The  miscreant  must  be  arrested  and  pun- 
ished. Where  do  you  live?" 

No  answer. 

"  Speak,  my  child  !    Speak  up !" 

She  had  reopened  her  eyes  and  now  looked  at  him 
steadily,  stonily,  but  without  a  word.  He  was  non- 
plussed. 

As  Fouchette  began  rapidly  to  recover  her  strength 
she  also  recovered  her  self-possession,  also  the  results 
of  her  training.  Foremost  among  these  were  her  sus- 
picions of  the  police,  whom  she  had  come  to  believe 
were  organized  by  society  to  restrain  and  harass  the 
poor;  that  the  informer  was  the  lowest  grade  of  hu- 
manity. 

In  addition  to  these  precepts  of  the  barriers,  Fou- 
chette was  afraid.  She  knew  the  character  of  those 
whom  she  had  left  behind.  She  felt  certain  that  if  she 
betrayed  them  to  the  police  she  would  be  put  out  of  the 
way. 

Nor  was  this  fear  at  all  unreasonable.  Without  her 
recent  terrible  experience  she  would  have  been  fully 
aware  of  the  danger  that  attended  a  too  loquacious 
tongue.  The  question  of  putting  this  one  or  that  one 
"  out  of  the  way"  had  frequently  been  discussed  openly 
and  seriously  at  the  Rendez-Vous  pour  Cochers.  A 
word  from  her  now  would  send  the  police  down  on 
that  resort.  Just  a  little  while  ago  she  was  nervous 


38  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

and  unstrung,  but,  while  she  had  at  first  formed  the 
intention  of  bringing  le  Cochon  to  book,  the  very  first 
question  brought  her  face  to  face  with  the  conse- 
quences. The  second  query  increased  her  obstinacy. 
The  peremptory  command  to  speak  out  left  her  mute. 
By  saying  nothing  she  could  compromise  nobody. 

"  Only  a  street  waif,"  suggested  the  doctor, — "  prob- 
ably has  no  home." 

Fouchette,  who  had  now  risen  to  a  sitting  posture, 
nodded  vivaciously. 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  say  so  ?"  growled  the  police 
agent.  "  Have  you  any  parents  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Whom  were  you  living  with,  and  where  ?" 

"  Nowhere." 

"  Now,  again, — what  is  your  name  ?" 

Silence. 

"  Why  don't  you  answer  ?" 

"  Because  it's  none  of  your  business,"  snapped  Fou- 
chette. 

"  We'll  see  about  that  before  the  Commissaire,"  re- 
torted the  agent.  "  He'll  take  the  sulk  out  of  you." 

"  Hold  on,"  put  in  the  bargewoman ;  "  don't  be 
harsh  with  her,  monsieur.  She  has  been  abused  dread- 
fully. Her  body  is  covered  with  bruises." 

"  So  much  more  reason  we  should  find  out  who  did 
it, — who  has  attempted  to  murder  the  child  into  the 
bargain." 

"  She  has  been  cruelly  beaten." 

Fouchette  nodded. 

"  I'll  have  to  take  you  to  the  Commissariat,  my 
child." 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  39 

"  I  don't  care  where  you  take  me, — that  is,  if  Tartar 
goes  along." 

The  dog  regarded  her  inquiringly. 

"  Certainly,"  responded  the  agent, — "  Tartar  is  a 
part  of  the  case.  Allons !" 

He  would  have  picked  her  up  in  his  powerful  arms, 
but  she  rebelled  vigorously,  protesting  that  she  could 
walk. 

"  Very  well.  Good !  You're  a  plucky  one.  You're 
the  right  stuff." 

The  little  official  party — the  agent,  Fouchette,  Tar- 
tar, a  waterman  carrying  the  basket,  the  stout  barge- 
woman  bearing  the  child's  wet  clothing — took  up  the 
march,  followed  by  several  idlers  in  search  of  sensa- 
tion. 

Having  arrived  at  the  Commissariat,  it  was  neces- 
sary to  await  the  hour  when  it  pleased  Monsieur  le 
Commissaire  to  put  in  an  appearance.  In  the  mean 
time  Fouchette  was  disposed  of  on  a  bench  within  a 
railed  space,  her  bare  feet  dangling,  momentarily  grow- 
ing physically  better  and  more  mentally  perplexed. 

What  would  they  do  with  her  ? 

She  dared  not  return  to  the  Podvins.  She  knew  of 
no  other  place  to  go.  She  was  desperately  alone  in  the 
world.  Only  Tartar,  who  once  more  stretched  himself 
at  her  feet,  with  his  head  in  a  position  where  he  could 
keep  a  half-open  eye  on  his  mistress.  Tartar  needed 
rest,  and  was  getting  it. 

The  police!  Next  to  the  murderer  of  the  barrier 
she  hated  and  feared  the  police. 

Would  they  send  her  to  prison  ? 

After  all,  she  thought,  one  might  as  well  have  been 


40  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

drowned  to  a  finish.  It  would  have  been  an  easy  es- 
cape from  this  uncertainty  and  agony  of  mind. 

She  began  to  feel  hungry.  Gradually  the  thoughts 
of  what  she  should  do  for  something  to  eat,  and  where 
she  would  be  able  to  get  something  for  Tartar,  drove 
out  all  other  thoughts.  If  they  could  only  get  away 
now, — at  this  hour  something  might  be  found  in  the 
streets.  She  calculated  the  chances  of  escape  by  a 
sudden  dash  for  the  door.  But  there  were  several 
police  agents  lounging  in  the  anteroom,  and  her  con- 
ductor sat  at  the  little  gate  of  the  enclosure.  So  the 
scheme  was  reluctantly  dismissed.  Anyhow,  if  they 
would  let  Tartar  remain  with  her  she  didn't  care  much. 

During  this  time  several  successive  attempts  were 
made  by  the  police  agents  to  get  her  to  talk.  She  re- 
sponded by  "  Yes"  or  "  No"  or  a  motion  of  the  head 
to  all  questions  not  connected  with  her  case.  On  this 
subject  she  was  persistently  silent. 

An  hour  later  the  bargewoman,  who  had  been  in 
secret  consultation  with  the  police  agents,  went  out  and 
got  Fouchette  a  roll  and  some  cheese,  which  she  ate 
eagerly.  This  woman  was  a  coarse,  masculine-looking 
creature  with  hands  as  hard  and  rough  as  a  fowl's 
foot,  a  distinct  moustache  and  tufts  of  hair  cropping 
out  here  and  there  on  her  neck  and  chin,  but  her  voice 
assumed  a  kindly  tone.  She  led  Fouchette  to  the  far- 
ther corner  of  the  room. 

"  I  must  go  back  to  my  boat  now,  cherie.  Cheer  up ! 
And  promise  me  one  thing, — don't  try  the  river  again. 
You  were  not  born  to  be  drowned,  anyhow.  If  you 
really  want  to  die  you'll  have  to  try  something  else." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  die,"  protested  Fouchette. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  41 

"  And  they  send  people  to  prison  who  attempt  sui- 
cide," continued  the  woman. 

"  But  I  didn't,  madame." 

"  The  bodies  spoil  the  water.  There  are  so  many  of 
them  floating  by.  I've  seen  hundreds  of  'em  in  my 
time." 

"  No,  indeed ;   I  would  rather  live." 

"That's  right, — that's  a  dear!  My  barge  is  'La 
Therese,' — named  after  me.  We  are  in  the  coal  trade. 
I  want  you  to  come  and  see  me,  petite.  You  shall  take 
a  trip  to  Rouen.  Yes, — would  you  like  to " 

"  Oh,  very  much,  madame !"  interrupted  Fouchette, 
joyfully. 

"You  shall." 

"And  Tartar?" 

"  Shall  go  too.  We'll  have  fine  times,  I  promise 
you.  You  will  find  us  at  the  Quai  d'Austerlitz  when 
in  Paris." 

"  Thank  you, — so  much !  I've  seen  the  big  boats 
go  by  lots  of  times  and  wished  I  was  on  one — one  with 
flowers  and  vines  and  a  dog — Tartar.  And  sometimes 
I've  seen  'em  in  my  sleep — yes." 

Fouchette  at  once  lost  herself  in  this  prospect.  It 
would  be  the  most  delightful  thing  in  her  life. 

"  Yes,  it  is  very  nice,"  continued  the  bargewoman. 
"  Remember,  cherie, — '  La  Therese.'  You  can  bring 
the  clothes  with  you.  Ask  for  me, — '  Therese/  My 
husband  named  the  barge  after  me  long  ago." 

"  It's  a  pretty  name,"  said  the  child. 

"  You  think  so  ?  A  name  is — what  is  your  real 
name,  petite?" 


42  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  I  don't  know,  madame,"  replied  Fouchette, 
promptly  and  truthfully. 

"  What !  Don't  know  your  own  name  ?  Impos- 
sible !" 

The  woman  was  vexed,  and  made  no  effort  to  con- 
ceal her  vexation.  To  be  outwitted  by  a  mere  child 
was  too  much  to  bear  with  equanimity.  As  kindly  dis- 
posed as  she  was  by  nature,  she  lost  her  temper  at 
once  at  what  she  considered  a  stupid  falsehood. 

"  You're  an  obstinate  little  brute !"  she  exclaimed,  in 
a  passion, — a  state  of  mind  aggravated  by  the  laughter 
of  the  police  agents  in  the  room. 

"  Yes,  and  a  little  liar,"  she  added. 

"  M — mad — madame !"  stammered  the  trembling 
child,  whose  bright  visions  vanished  in  a  twinkling. 

"  I  don't  wonder  they  threw  you  in  the  river, — not 
a  bit!" 

Fouchette's  lips  were  now  set  in  mute  rage.  She 
was  up  in  arms  at  once.  Her  steely  eyes  shot  fire. 
The  honest  bargewoman  had  almost  won  her  childish 
confidence.  Another  word  or  two  of  kindness  and 
she  would  have  gained  an  easy  victory.  Now,  how- 
ever, everything  was  upset  and  the  fat  was  in  the  fire. 

Without  a  word  Fouchette  began  to  hurriedly  divest 
herself  of  the  clothing  she  wore  and  to  throw  the  gar- 
ments, piece  by  piece,  on  the  floor. 

So  quickly  was  this  accomplished  that  neither  the 
astonished  woman  nor  the  puzzled  police  agents  could 
interfere  before  the  child  stood  there  perfectly  nude 
in  the  midst  of  them.  Her  frame,  which  was  little 
more  than  a  living  skeleton  covered  with  marks  of 
violence,  fairly  quivered  with  anger.  She  choked  so 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  43 

that  she  could  not  speak.  In  another  minute  she  had 
resumed  her  wet  rags. 

"  Voila !"  she  finally  cried,  pointing  to  the  discarded 
garments.  "  At  least  you  can  never  say  that  I  asked 
for  them  or  didn't  return  them !" 

"  Mon  Dieu !"  The  woman  was  overwhelmed, — 
breathless. 

To  be  misunderstood  is  often  the  bitterest  thing  to 
bear  in  this  life.  Madame  Therese  and  little  Fou- 
chette  were  suffering  simultaneously  from  this  evil. 

"  Take  'em  away 1" 

"  But  listen,  child !    I " 

"  Take  'em  away !"  she  screamed. 

Tartar  rose  with  an  ominous  growl  and  looked  from 
his  mistress  to  the  woman. 

"  We  don't  need  'em,  do  we,  Tartar  ?  No !  Let 
them  take  their  gall  and  honey  with  'em.  Yes !  They 
make  us  tired.  Yes !" 

To  all  of  these  observations — somewhat  heavily 
weighted  with  barrier  billingsgate — Tartar  showed  his 
approval  by  wagging  his  tail  knowingly  and  by  cover- 
ing the  small  face  bent  down  to  him  with  canine  kisses. 

"  Better  come  away,  madame,"  said  an  agent,  in  a 
low  voice,  to  the  stupefied  woman  thus  assailed.  He 
laughed  at  her  discomfiture.  "  It  is  waste  kindness 
and  waste  time.  You  can't  do  anything  with  that  sort 
of  riffraff.  It's  only  a  stray  cat  fed  to  scratch  you. 
They're  a  bad  lot." 

The  "  bad  lot"  had  overheard  this  police  philosophy, 
and  it  confirmed  her  pre-existing  opinion  of  the  police. 

Monsieur  le  Commissaire  was  a  grave  and  burly 
gentleman  of  middle  life,  with  iron-gray  hair  and 


44  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

moustache,  and  eyes  that  seemed  to  read  their  object 
through  and  through.  He  pulled  this  moustache 
thoughtfully  as  he  listened  to  the  report  of  the  river 
police  agent,  all  the  time  keeping  the  eyes  upon  the 
diminutive  but  defiant  child  before  him.  When  he 
had  learned  everything, — including  the  scene  in  the 
station, — he  said,  abruptly, — 

"  Come  in  here,  my  child.  Don't  be  afraid, — no- 
body's going  to  hurt  you.  Yes,  bring  the  dog.  Brave 
dog!  Splendid  fellow!  Come!  I'd  like  to  own  that 
dog,  now, — I  would,  indeed!"  he  observed,  as  he 
closed  the  door  of  his  private  office ;  "  but  I  suppose 
you  wouldn't  part  with  him  for  the  world  now,  would 
you?" 

"  N-no.  But  he  isn't  mine,  monsieur,"  she  replied, 
regretfully. 

"  No  ?  What  a  pity !  Then  perhaps  I  could  buy 
him,  eh?" 

"  I — I  don't  know.     Monsieur  Podvin " 

She  stopped  suddenly.  But  the  magistrate  was  look- 
ing abstractedly  over  her  head  and  did  not  appear  to 
notice  her  slip  of  the  tongue.  He  was  thinking.  It 
gave  little  Fouchette  time  to  recover. 

He  was  something  like  the  enthusiastic  physician 
who  sees  in  his  patient  only  "  a  case," — something 
devoid  of  personality.  He  recognized  in  this  waif  a 
condition  of  society  to  be  treated.  In  his  mind  she  was 
a  wholly  irresponsible  creature.  Not  the  whole  case 
in  question, — oh,  no;  but  a  part  of  the  case.  What 
she  had  been,  was  now,  or  would  be  were  questions 
that  did  not  enter  into  the  consideration.  Nothing  but 
the  case. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  45 

Instead  of  putting  the  child  through  a  course  of 
questions, — what  she  anticipated  and  had  steeled  her- 
self against, — he  merely  talked  to  her  on  what  ap- 
peared to  be  topics  foreign  to  the  subject  immediately 
in  hand. 

"  You  must  be  taken  care  of  in  some  way,"  he  de- 
clared. "  Yes, — a  child  like  you  should  not  be  left  in 
the  streets  of  Paris  to  beg  or  starve, — and  it's  against 
the  law  to  beg " 

"  But  I  never  begged,  monsieur,"  interrupted  the 
child— "never!" 

"  Of  course  not, — of  course  not !  No ;  you  are  too 
proud  to  beg.  That's  right.  But  you  couldn't  make  a 
living  picking  rags,  and  the  law  doesn't  permit  a  child 
to  pick  rags  in  the  streets  of  Paris." 

"  I  never  did,  monsieur,  never !" 

"  Of  course  not, — you  would  be  arrested.  But  out- 
side the  barriers  the  work  is  not  lucrative.  Charen- 
ton,  for  instance,  is  not  as  prolific  of  rags  as  it  is  of 
rascals." 

At  the  mention  of  Charenton  Fouchette  started  vis- 
ibly; but  her  interlocutor  did  not  seem  to  notice  it. 

"  No ;  it  does  riot  even  give  as  brave  a  child  as  you 
enough  to  eat, — not  if  you  work  ever  so  hard, — let 
alone  to  provide  comfortably  for  Tar — for  Tartar. 
Eh,  my  brave  spaniel?  We  must  get  Tartar  some 
breakfast.  Has  Tartar  had  any  breakfast?" 

"  No,  monsieur, — oh,  no !    And  he  is  so  hungry !" 

She  was  all  eagerness  and  softness  when  it  came  to 
her  faithful  companion.  Tartar  began  to  take  a  lively 
interest  in  the  conversation  of  which  he  knew  himself 
the  subject. 


46  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  Exactly,"  said  the  Commissaire,  suddenly  getting 
up.  He  had  reached  his  conclusion.  "  Now,  remain 
here  a  few  minutes,  little  one,  while  I  see  about  it." 

He  disappeared  into  the  outer  office  and  remained 
closeted  in  a  small  cabinet  with  a  telephone.  Then, 
calling  one  of  his  men  in  plain  clothes  aside,  he  gave 
some  instructions  in  a  rapid  manner. 

When  he  re-entered  the  private  office  he  knew  that 
a  rascal  named  Podvin  kept  a  disreputable  cabaret 
near  the  Porte  de  Charenton,  and  that  a  small,  thin 
child  called  Fouchette  lived  with  the  Podvins,  who  also 
kept  a  dog,  liver-colored,  with  dark-brown  splotches, 
named  Tartar,  but  that  the  child  was  not  yet  missed, 
probably  owing  to  the  fact  that  it  was  her  customary 
hour  in  the  streets  of  Charenton.  In  the  same  time  he 
had  notified  the  Prefecture  that  a  murderous  attempt 
had  been  made  on  a  child,  probably  by  some  one  of  the 
gang  that  infested  the  Rendez-Vous  pour  Cochers,  and 
had  been  directed  to  co-operate  with  two  skilled  Cen- 
tral men  in  an  investigation. 

"  All  right,  petite,"  said  the  Commissaire,  rubbing 
his  hands  and  assuming  his  most  oily  tone.  "  First 
we  are  going  to  have  some  dry  clothes  and  some  shoes 
and  stockings  and " 

"  I  only — I  never  wore  shoes  and  stockings,"  inter- 
rupted Fouchette,  somewhat  embarrassed  by  this  flood 
of  finery.  "  I  don't  need  'em,  monsieur.  It  is  only 
Tartar's " 

"  Oh,  we'll  attend  to  Tartar  also,— don't  be  afraid." 

"  Monsieur  is  very  kind." 

"  It  is  nothing.  Come  along,  now.  You're  going  to 
ride  in  a  nice  carriage,  too, — for  the  crowd  might  fol- 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  47 

low  you  in  the  street,  you  know, — and  I'll  send  a  man 
with  you  to  take  good  care  of  you." 

"  But  Tartar— 

"  You  can  take  him  in  the  carriage  with  you  if  you 
wish, — yes,  it  is  better,  perhaps.  He  might  get  run 
over  or  lost." 

"Oh!" 

And  thus  Fouchette  rode  in  state,  and  in  wet  rags  at 
the  same  time,  down  past  the  great  Jardin  des  Plantes, 
the  Halle  aux  Vins,  and  along  the  Boulevard  St.  Ger- 
main to  Rue  St.  Jacques,  where  they  turned  down 
across  the  Petit  Pont  and  stopped  in  the  court-yard  of 
an  immense  building  across  the  plaza  from  Notre  Dame. 
Tartar  was  somewhat  uneasy,  as  well  as  his  little  mis- 
tress, at  this  novelty  of  locomotion,  but  as  long  as  they 
were  together  it  seemed  to  be  all  right.  So  they  looked 
out  of  the  carriage  windows  at  the  sights  that  were 
as  strange  to  their  eyes  as  if  they  had  never  before 
been  in  the  city  of  Paris.  Meanwhile,  to  divert  the 
child,  the  man  at  her  side  had  gayly  pointed  out  the 
objects  of  interest. 

"  Ah !  and  there  is  grand  old  Notre  Dame,"  said  he. 

"What's  that?" 

"  Notre  Dame." 

"  It's  a  big  house." 

"  Yes ;  but  you've  seen  it,  of  course." 

"  Never." 

"  What !"  he  exclaimed,  in  astonishment ;  "  you,  a 
little  Parisienne,  and  never  saw  Notre  Dame?" 

"  You — you,  monsieur,  you  have  then  seen  every- 
thing in  Paris  ?" 

There  was  a  vein  of  cold  irony  in  the  small  voice. 


48  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  Er — w-well,  not  quite.  Not  quite,  perhaps,"  he 
smilingly  answered. 

"  No,  nor  I,"  she  said. 

"  But  Notre  Dame " 

"  What's  Notre  Dame  to  me  ?    Nothing  1" 

A  slight  gesture  of  impatience. 

"  But " 

"What's  it  for?" 

"  Why,  it's  a  church,  petite." 

"  A  church !    And  what's  that  to  me  ?" 

"  Well,  truly,  I  don't  know,  child.  Nothing,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"  Nothing !" 

She  snapped  her  fingers  contemptuously. 

"  Here  is  the  Prefecture." 

It  was  the  Prefecture  de  Police  and  not  Notre  Dame 
that  had  to  do  with  little  Fouchette  and  her  kind. 
She  knew  what  the  Prefecture  was,  though  she  now 
saw  it  for  the  first  time.  And  she  shivered  in  her 
wet  rags  as  the  carriage  turned  into  the  great  court- 
yard surrounded  by  the  immense  stone  quadrangle 
that  fronts  upon  the  quai. 

A  troop  of  the  Garde  de  Paris  was  drilling  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  court.  Sentinels  with  gay  uniforms 
and  fixed  bayonets  solemnly  paraded  at  the  three  gate- 
ways. 

"  Come,  petite,"  said  the  man,  flinging  open  the  car- 
riage doors  and  lifting  the  child  in  his  arms  to  the 
ground.  The  dog  leaped  out  after  her  and  looked 
uneasily  up  and  down. 

Half  an  hour  later  when  Fouchette  emerged  with 
her  conductor  she  had  undergone  a  transformation 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  49 

that  would  have  rendered  her  unrecognizable  in  Cha- 
renton.  She  had  not  only  been  washed  and  combed 
and  rubbed  down,  but  had  been  arrayed  in  a  frock  of 
grayish  material,  a  chip  hat  with  flowers  in  it,  and 
shoes  and  stockings.  She  was  so  excited  over  the 
grandeur  of  her  personal  appearance  that  she  had 
completely  lost  her  bearings.  It  is  true  the  hat  was 
too  old  for  a  child  of  her  years,  and  the  coarse  new 
costume  was  several  sizes  too  large  for  her  bony  little 
frame,  and  the  shoes  were  very  embarrassing,  but  to 
Fouchette  they  seemed  the  outfit  of  a  "  real  lady." 

She  had  entered  the  Prefecture  sullenly,  desperately, 
half  expecting  to  be  sent  to  a  lonely  cell  and  perhaps 
loaded  with  chains, — she  had  heard  tell  of  such  things, 
— and,  instead,  had  been  treated  with  kindness  by  a 
gentle  matron,  her  body  washed  and  clothed,  her 
stomach  made  glad  with  rich  soup  and  bread  and  milk, 
while  Tartar  was  amply  provided  for  before  her  own 
eyes. 

Fouchette  was  still  in  a  daze  when  she  found  her- 
self again  in  the  closed  carriage,  with  Tartar  at  her 
feet,  being  whirled  away  at  a  pace  that  seemed  to 
threaten  the  lives  of  everybody  in  the  streets.  The 
same  man  sat  beside  her,  and  an  extra  man  had, 
at  the  last  moment,  clambered  up  by  the  side  of  the 
driver. 

This  furious  speed  was  continued  for  a  long  time, 
until  Fouchette  began  to  wonder  more  and  more 
where  they  were  going.  She  could  not  recognize 
anything  en  route,  and  the  man  was  now  serious  and 
taciturn. 

All  at  once  she  saw  that  they  were  approaching  the 
4 


50  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

barrier.  Things  looked  differently  from  a  carriage 
window,  and  yet  there  was  a  familiar  air  about  the 
surroundings. 

The  man  noticed  her  uneasiness  and  pulled  down 
the  blinds. 

A  terrible  fear  now  seized  her.  Were  they  going  to 
take  her  back  to  the  Podvins  ? 

This  fear  increased  as  the  speed  of  the  vehicle  les- 
sened and  as  Tartar  began  to  move  about  impatiently. 
He  was  trying  to  get  his  nose  under  the  curtain. 

"  Hold  him  down !"  said  the  man  in  a  low  voice. 
He  was  afraid  to  touch  the  dog  himself. 

"  Oh,  monsieur !"  she  finally  exclaimed,  "  we  are  not 
going  to — to " 

"  The  Rendez-Vous  pour  Cochers,  my  little  Fou- 
chette,"  he  put  in,  with  a  smile. 

"  Oh,  mon  Dieu !  Please,  monsieur !  Take  me  any- 
where else, — back  to  the  Prefecture — to  prison — any- 
where but  to  this  place !  They'll  kill  me !  Oh,  they'll 
kill  me,  monsieur!" 

"  Bah !  No,  they  won't,  little  one.  We'll  take  care 
of  that." 

"  But " 

"  Besides,"  he  continued,  reassuringly,  "  we're  not 
going  to  leave  you  there,  so  don't  be  afraid.  Maybe 
you  won't  have  to  get  out,  or  be  seen  even,  if  you  do 
as  I  tell  you.  Have  no  fear." 

"  Mon  Dieu !  monsieur  does  not  know.  They'll  kill 
you,  too !" 

"  No,  they  won't.  And  I  know  all  about  them,  my 

child.  There  are  four  of  us,  and Keep  the  dog 

down  till  I  open  the  door." 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  51 

The  carriage  had  stopped. 

"  Stay  right  where  you  are,"  he  whispered.  "  Let 
the  dog  out." 

Tartar  could  not  have  been  held  in  by  both  of  them. 
He  jumped  to  the  ground  with  joyous  barks  of  recog- 
nition. 

It  was  now  ten  o'clock,  and  the  usual  odors  of  a 
Parisian  second  breakfast  permeated  the  atmosphere 
of  the  cabaret. 

Four  or  five  rough-looking  men  were  lounging 
about,  gossiping  over  their  absinthe  or  aperatif.  Mon- 
sieur Podvin  was  already,  at  this  early  hour  in  the  day, 
on  his  second  bottle  of  ordinaire.  Opposite,  as  usual, 
sat  le  Cochon. 

Madame  Podvin  was  busily  burnishing  up  the  zinc 
bar,  and  the  vigorous  and  spiteful  way  in  which  she 
did  this  betrayed  the  fact  that  she  was  in  bad  temper. 
She  was  reserving  an  extra  force  of  pent-up  wrath 
against  the  moment  when  that  "  lazy  little  beast  Fou- 
chette"  should  put  in  an  appearance. 

Monsieur  Podvin  was  also  irritated,  but  not  because 
of  Fouchette's  prolonged  absence.  He  was  concerned 
about  Tartar. 

Le  Cochon  sympathized  with  both  of  them. 

Among  the  various  theories  offered  for  these  disap- 
pearances madame  thought  that  Fouchette  was  simply 
playing  truant.  The  dog  did  not  bother  her  calcula- 
tion, as  he  would  not  share  the  punishment. 

Monsieur  was  certain  that  the  girl  had  enticed  the 
dog  away  from  home ;  though  why  she  had  taken  her 
basket  and  hook  if  she  were  not  coming  back  he  could 
not  say. 


52  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

Le  Cochon  took  a  gloomy  view  of  it.  He  was  afraid 
some  accident  had  befallen  her, — she  might  have  got 
run  over  by  a  fiacre,  or  have  fallen  into  the  river. 

"Nonsense!"  protested  M.  Podvin.  "The  dog 
would  come  home.  He  wouldn't  get  run  over  too,  and 
you  couldn't  drown  a  spaniel." 

It  was  precisely  at  this  moment  that  the  loud  bark- 
ing of  Tartar  broke  upon  their  ears,  confirming  his 
master's  judgment  and  sending  a  thrill  through  every- 
body in  the  room.  This  sensation,  however,  was  by 
no  means  the  same. 

The  brute  master  alone  rejoiced  for  pure  love  of 
the  dog  and  for  the  dog's  sake. 

Madame  Podvin  went  in  search  of  a  certain  stout 
strap  used  upon  Fouchette  on  special  occasions  of 
ceremonial  penological  procedure. 

Two  strange  men  seated  at  some  distance  from  each 
other,  and  who  up  to  that  moment  had  ignored  each 
other's  existence,  exchanged  looks  of  intelligence  and 
rose  as  if  to  leave  the  place. 

Le  Cochon  alone  seemed  disconcerted.  His  beetle 
brows  clouded,  and  his  right  hand  involuntarily  sought 
the  handle  of  his  knife. 

The  instincts  of  the  robber  were  this  time  unerring. 
For  Tartar  had  scarcely  licked  the  dirty  hand  of  his 
master,  when  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  would-be  murderer 
of  his  beloved  mistress.  The  sight  appeared  to  startle 
the  animal  at  first.  But  only  for  a  second.  Then, 
with  a  growl  of  rage  that  began  low  and  ominously, 
like  the  first  notes  of  a  thunder-storm,  and  swelled 
into  a  howl,  the  spaniel  sprang  upon  the  villain  and 
fastened  his  fangs  in  his  fleshy  throat. 


CHAPTER   III 

THE  onset  was  so  sudden  and  swift,  and  the  animal 
had  received  such  a  powerful  impetus  from  his  spring, 
that  the  burly  robber  went  down  with  a  tremendous 
crash. 

Man  and  dog  rolled  together  in  the  dirt,  upsetting 
tables  and  chairs  and  raising  a  terrible  uproar.  The 
desperate  wretch  plunged  his  knife  again  and  again 
into  the  body  of  the  enraged  spaniel;  the  latter  only 
clinched  his  teeth  tighter  and  endeavored  to  tear  his 
enemy  by  main  brute  strength. 

Madame  Podvin,  having  been  diverted  from  her 
original  purpose  by  this  unexpected  melee,  set  up  a 
scream  that  would  have  drowned  an  active  calliope. 

"  That's  our  bird !"  shouted  the  man  who  had  been 
serving  as  Fouchette's  footman. 

Whereupon  his  partner  and  the  two  agents  from  the 
Prefecture  who  had  been  waiting  within  fell  upon  the 
struggling  pair. 

It  was  all  over  in  a  few  seconds. 

Yet  within  that  brief  period  Tartar  lay  dead  from  a 
knife-thrust  in  the  heart,  and  the  robber  was  extended 
alongside  of  his  victim,  his  hands  securely  manacled 
upon  his  back. 

"  Hold  on,  gentlemen !"  broke  in  M.  Podvin  at  this 
juncture,  having  found  his  voice  for  the  first  time, 
"  what  does  this  mean  ?" 

"  It  means,  my  dear  Podvin,  that  this  amiable  gen- 
tleman, who  has  always  been  so  handy  with  his  knife, 
is  wanted  at  the  Prefecture " 

"  And  that  you  are  politely  requested  to  accompany 

53 


54  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

him,"  added  the  other  Central  man,  tapping  M.  Pod- 
vin  on  the  shoulder. 

"But,  quediable!" 

"  Come !  Madame  will  conduct  the  business  all 
right,  no  doubt,  while  her  patriot  husband  serves  the 
State." 

"  That  cursed  dog  has  finished  me,"  growled  the 
prostrate  robber.  "  C'est  egal !  I've  done  for  him  and 
F If  it  had  only  been  one  of  you,  curse  you !" 

This  benevolent  wish  was  addressed  to  the  police 
agent  who  was  at  that  moment  engaged  in  binding  up 
the  horrible  wound  in  the  man's  throat.  Both  were 
drenched  with  blood,  partly  from  the  dog  and  partly 
from  the  man.  Le  Cochon  had  been  assisted  to  a 
sitting  posture,  sullen,  revengeful,  with  murder  in  his 
black  heart. 

All  at  once  his  inflamed  eyes  rested  upon  something 
in  the  doorway.  At  first  it  was  but  casually,  then  fix- 
edly, while  the  bloated  face  turned  ashen. 

He  started  to  rise  to  his  feet,  and  would  have  warded 
off  the  apparition  with  his  hands,  only  they  were  laced 
in  steel  behind  him,  then,  with  a  deep  groan  of  terror, 
pitched  forward  upon  his  face,  senseless. 

It  was  Fouchette. 

The  others  turned  towards  the  doorway  to  see, — 
there  was  nothing  there. 

Cowering  for  a  few  moments  in  the  darkest  corner 
of  the  carriage,  she  had  heard  the  voice  of  Tartar 
raised  in  anger,  followed  by  the  tumult.  The  latter 
she  had  anticipated  with  fear  and  trembling.  She  had 
divined  at  the  last  moment  that  these  were  agents  of 
the  police,  and  that  the  object  was  arrests.  The  noise 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  55 

of  combat  roused  her  fighting  blood,  the  silence  that 
so  soon  followed  heated  her  curiosity  to  the  boiling- 
point.  It  was  intolerable.  Perhaps  the  agents  were 
being  killed.  The  suspense  was  dreadful.  She  felt 
that  she  could  not  endure  it  another  second. 

The  man  had  ordered  her  to  remain  in  the  carriage. 
The  blinds  were  down;  the  coachman  stood  on  the 
side  next  to  the  cabaret.  . 

Come  what  might,  she  must  know.  .  So  Fouchette 
slipped  softly  out  on  the  opposite  side  and  sneaked 
swiftly  around  the  horses'  heads. 

The  coachman  on  guard  was  for  the  same  moment 
completely  wrapped  up  in  the  riot  that  had  been  going 
on  inside  the  Rendez-Vous  pour  Cochers ;  he  saw  the 
child  just  as  she  reached  the  doorway,  and  then  he 
made  a  dash  for  her,  grabbed  her,  and  put  her  back 
in  the  carriage. 

Thus,  it  so  happened  that  but  a  single  pair  of  eyes 
within  had  seen  Fouchette,  and  these  eyes  belonged  to 
the  man  who  believed  her  to  be  dead. 

It  was  for  the  purpose  of  the  identification  of  her 
assailant  that  Fouchette  had  been  brought  to  the 
Rendez-Vous  pour  Cochers.  Tartar  had  spared  her 
that  trouble,  though  it  was  for  quite  another  reason 
that  le  Cochon  fell  into  the  grip  of  the  police. 

The  latter  had  experienced  no  difficulty  in  identify- 
ing Fouchette  in  spite  of  her  obstinate  silence.  As 
she  had  come  down  the  river  from  outside  the  barrier, 
it  was  clear  that  she  made  her  living  in  some  river 
suburb.  A  telephonic  inquiry  brought  not  only  imme- 
diate confirmation  from  the  authorities  at  Charenton, 
but  had  elicited  the  important  details  that  brought  the 


56  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

specials  from  the  Prefecture  down  upon  the  suspected 
cabaret.  In  the  man  described  as  "  le  Cochon"  the 
officials  at  once  recognized  a  notorious  escaped  con- 
vict. 

It  was  not  until  Fouchette  was  on  her  way  back  to 
the  Prefecture  that  it  was  learned  that  in  their  prisoner, 
le  Cochon,  they  also  had  an  assassin  who  up  to  this 
moment  had  eluded  arrest. 

When  the  agent  had  informed  her  of  the  death  of 
Tartar  she  was  first  overcome  with  grief.  The  sense 
of  her  utter  loneliness  rushed  upon  her.  She  wept 
convulsively.  Her  sorrow  was  bitter  and  profound. 

"  Cheer  up,  my  child ;   don't  give  way  like  that." 

Her  companion  tried  now  and  then  to  comfort  her 
in  his  rough  way. 

"  Ah,  monsieur !  but  he  was  the  only  friend  I  had 
in  the  world !"  she  sobbed. 

"  There,  there !"  he  said,  soothingly ;  "  you'll  have 
more  friends.  You'll  be  taken  care  of  all  right." 

"  I  don't  care  what  becomes  of  me,  now  poor  Tar- 
tar's gone !  He  loved  me !  Nobody  will  ever  love  me 
like  he  did, — never !" 

But  when  she  had  recovered  from  this  tempest  of 
tears  it  was  to  succumb  to  a  tempest  of  wrath. 

"  That  wretch !  I'll  see  him  under  the  razor !"  she 
exclaimed,  meaning  the  guillotine.  "  He  tried  to 
drown  me,  the  assassin!  Yes,  I  know  him  for  an 
assassin, — a  murderer !  It  was  he  who  pushed  me  into 
the  river!" 

"Oho!" 

"  It  is  true !  That  man  is  a  fiend, — an  assassin !  I  am 
ready  to  tell  everything,  monsieur !  Everything !" 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  57 

Not  for  love  of  truth, — not  for  fear  of  law, — but  for 
the  love  of  a  dog. 

In  this  mood  she  was  encouraged  by  all  the  wiles 
and  insinuating  ways  known  to  the  professional  stu- 
dent of  human  nature.  So  that,  when  Fouchette 
reached  the  Prefecture,  she  had  not  only  imparted  valu- 
able information,  she  had  astounded  her  official  audi- 
tor. Not  altogether  by  what  she  had  revealed,  but 
quite  as  much  by  her  precocious  cleverness  and  judg- 
ment. 

She  was  taken  at  once  before  Inspector  Loup,  of  the 
Secret  Service. 

Fouchette  was  not  in  the  least  intimidated  when  she 
found  herself  closeted  alone  with  this  mighty  person- 
age. For  she  did  not  know  the  extraordinary  power 
wielded  by  Inspector  Loup,  and  was  in  equal  ignorance 
of  the  stenographer  behind  the  screen.  She  was  think- 
ing only  of  her  revenge.  She  had  sworn,  mentally,  to 
have  the  head  of  le  Cochon.  She  would  see  him 
writhing  under  the  guillotine.  Not  because  he  had 
tried  to  drown  her, — she  would  never  have  betrayed 
him  for  that, — but  because  he  had  murdered  her  dog. 
She  would  have  vengeance.  She  would  have  over- 
looked his  cowardly  butchery  of  a  stranger  in  the  wood 
of  Vincennes;  but  for  the  killing  of  Tartar  she  was 
ready  and  eager  to  see  the  head  of  le  Cochon  fall  in 
the  Place  de  la  Roquette. 

Therefore  Fouchette  confronted  Inspector  Loup  in- 
tent upon  her  own  wrongs,  and  with  a  face  which 
might  have  been  deemed  impudent  but  for  its  prema- 
ture hardness. 

Inspector  Loup  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  with  small, 


58  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

keen,  fishy  eyes, — so  small  they  seemed  like  beads,  all 
pupil,  so  keen  they  glistened  like  diamonds,  so  fishy 
they  appeared  to  swim  round  in  two  heavily  fringed 
ponds.  And  they  were  always  swimming, — indolently, 
as  if  it  were  not  really  worth  while,  but  still  leaving 
the  vague  and  sometimes  uncomfortable  impression 
that  they  were  on  you,  under  you,  around  you,  through 
you ;  that  they  were  weighing  you,  analyzing  you,  and 
knew  what  was  in  your  mind  and  stomach,  as  well  as 
the  contents  of  your  inside  pockets. 

It  was  the  habit  of  Inspector  Loup  to  turn  these 
peculiar  orbs  upon  whoever  came  under  his  personal 
jurisdiction  for  a  minute  or  two  without  uttering  a 
word,  though  usually  before  that  time  had  expired 
the  individual  had  succumbed  to  their  mysterious  in- 
fluence and  was  ready  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it. 

Their  awful  influence  upon  the  wrongdoer  was  in- 
tensified by  the  softness  of  his  insinuating  voice,  that 
seemed  to  pry  down  into  human  secrets  as  a  sort  of 
intellectual  jimmy,  delicate  but  powerful,  and  by  the 
noiselessness  of  his  tread,  which  had  the  effect  of 
creeping  upon  his  victim  preparatory  to  the  final 
spring. 

In  other  words,  Inspector  Loup  accomplished  by 
moral  force  what  others  believed  possible  only  to  phys- 
ical intimidation.  Yet  those  law-breakers  who  had 
presumed  too  much  upon  his  gentleness  had  invariably 
come  to  grief,  and  Inspector  Loup  had  reached  his 
present  confidential  position  through  thrilling  experi- 
ences that  had  left  his  lank  body  covered  with  honor- 
able scars. 

Inspector  Loup  was  practically  chief  of  the  Secret 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  59 

System, — or,  rather,  was  director  of  that  system  under 
the  eye  of  the  Minister  of  the  Interior.  He  had  served 
a  dozen  ministries.  He  had  adopted  the  great  Fouche 
as  a  standard,  and  no  government  could  change  quicker 
than  Inspector  Loup  could.  If  he  had  been  of  the 
Napoleonic  period  he  might  have  rivalled  his  distin- 
guished model.  As  it  was,  he  did  as  well  as  was  pos- 
sible with  the  weak  governing  material  with  which 
France  was  afflicted. 

The  word  "  spy"  being  obnoxious  in  all  languages 
and  at  all  times  and  in  all  places,  the  myriad  smaller 
particles  of  the  Secret  System  were  called  "  Agents." 

The  Paris  "  agent"  of  this  class  has,  happily,  no 
counterpart  in  the  American  government.  Our  "  de- 
tectives," or  "  plain  clothes  men,"  are  limited  to  legiti- 
mate police  duties  in  the  discovery  of  crime  and  prose- 
cution of  criminals.  They  are  known,  are  borne  on 
pay-rolls,  usually  have  good  character  and  some  offi- 
cial standing. 

The  Paris  "  agent"  is  a  widely  different  individual, 
speaking  of  that  branch  not  in  uniform  and  not  regu- 
larly employed  on  routine  work.  This  class  is  formed 
of  government  employes,  all  persons  holding  govern- 
ment licenses  of  any  kind,  all  keepers  of  public-houses 
and  places  of  public  resort  subject  to  government  in- 
spection, returned  convicts  under  police  surveillance, 
criminals  under  suspension  of  sentence,  all  persons 
under  the  eye  of  the  police  subject  to  arrest  for  one 
thing  or  another,  or  who  may  be  intimidated. 

Add  to  these  the  regular  service  men  and  women, 
then  bear  in  mind  that  the  names  of  all  "  agents"  are 
secure  from  public  knowledge,  even  of  a  military 


60  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

court,  that  they  can  stab  in  the  dark  and  never  be  held 
accountable  by  their  victims,  and  that  appropriations 
are  made  in  bulk  for  this  service  without  an  accounting, 
and  you  will  then  understand  the  full  strength  and 
appreciate  the  unique  infamy  of  the  French  Secret 
System. 

"Eh,  bien?" 

Inspector  Loup  had  finished  his  inspection  of  the 
childish  figure  before  him  and  was  compelled  to  break 
the  ice. 

"  Eh,  bien,  monsieur ;  it  is  me." 

An  obstinate  silence  ensued. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want  ?"  finally  inquired  the 
inspector,  in  a  tone  that  clearly  implied  that,  whatever 
it  was,  she  would  not  get  it. 

"  Nothing,"  she  replied. 

"  Then  what  are  you  here  for  ?" 

"  Because  I  was  brought." 

"Oh!" 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

"  Well,  now  you  are  here " 

"Yes?" 

"  What  have  you  got  to  say  ?" 

"Nothing." 

"  Que  diable !   child,  no  fencing !" 

Another  awkward  silence,  during  which  each  coolly 
surveyed  the  other. 

"  Why  don't  you  speak?" 

"About  what?" 

"  Yourself." 

"  Of  what  good  is  it  to  speak  ?"  she  asked,  simply, 
— "  monsieur  knows." 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  61 

"  Indeed !" 

This  child  was  breaking  the  record.  Inspector  Loup 
contemplated  her  petite  personality  once  more.  Here 
was  a  rare  diplomate. 

"  You  are  called  Fouchette  ?"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  mon- " 

"  You  come  from  Nantes.  No ;  you  don't  remem- 
ber. You  were  picked  up  in  the  streets  by  the  Pod- 
vins  and  have  been  living  with  them  ever  since.  Fou- 
chette is  the  name  they  gave  you.  It  is  not  your  real 
name.  You  are  ostensibly  a  ragpicker,  but  are  the 
consort  and  associate  of  thieves  and  robbers  and  assas- 
sins, who  have  used  you  as  well  as  abused  you.  You 
are  suspected  to  be  a  regular  go-between  for  these  and 
the  receivers  of  stolen  goods." 

"  M-monsieur !" 

Truly,  Monsieur  1'Inspecteur  knew  more  of  her  than 
she  did. 

"  And  I  know  that  it  is  true.  You  would  have  been 
arrested  in  the  act  the  next  trip.  This  ruffian,  so- 
called  le  Cochon,  threw  you  in  the  river  with  the  inten- 
tion of  drowning  you.  You  were  rescued  through 
the  sagacity  and  devotion  of  a  dog.  Both  this  man 
le  Cochon  and  Podvin  have  been  arrested.  There  are 
others " 

"There  are  others,"  repeated  Fouchette. 

"  Which  you " 

"  I  know." 

"Well?" 

"  The  dead  man  of  the  wood  of  Vincennes — last 
year.  Did  they  ever  find  the  one  who  did  that?" 

"  No." 


62  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"LeCochon!" 

"Ah!" 

"  Very  sure." 

"You  saw  it?"  . 

"  Oh,  no.    I  heard  them  talking." 

"Who?" 

"  Monsieur  Podvin  and  le  Cochon." 

"  Go  on,  mon  enfant ;  you  grow  interesting  at 
last." 

"  Monsieur  Podvin  was  very  angry  because  of  it. 
They  quarrelled.  I  heard  them  from  my  bed  in  the 
cellar.  The  man  had  resisted, — over  a  few  sous, 
think!  And  Monsieur  Podvin  said  it  was  not  worth 
while,  for  so  little,  to  bring  the  police  down  on  the 
neighborhood.  It  spoiled  business.  For  the  twelve 
sous  Monsieur  Podvin  said  he'd  lose  a  thousand 
francs." 

"  M.  Podvin  was  undoubtedly  right." 

"  Yes ;  but  le  Cochon  said  it  was  worth  a  thousand 
francs  to  hear  the  man  squeal." 

"So!" 

"  Yes.  And  then  Monsieur  Podvin  wanted  to  take 
it  out  of  his  share." 

"So?" 

"  Yes ;  and  so  they  quarrelled  dreadfully." 

"  And  Madame  Podvin, — she  heard  this  ?" 

"  Madame  is  not  deaf,  monsieur." 

"Ah!" 

"  She  was  at  the  zinc." 

"  Truly,  Madame  Podvin  may  become  of  value," 
muttered  Inspector  Loup. 

"Monsieur?" 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  63 

"  Oh !  And  so  you've  kept  this  to  your  little  self  all 
this  time.  Why?" 

"  I  was  afraid ;  then " 

4  "I  understand.  But  you  got  bravely  over  all  this 
as  soon  as  this  miscreant  undertook  to  put  you  out  of 
the  way,  eh  ?" 

"  It  was  not  that,  monsieur,  for  what  I  would  be 
avenged." 

"  So  you  confess  to  the  motive  ?" 

"  I  would  surely  be  revenged,  monsieur,"  she 
avowed,  frankly. 

"  A  mighty  small  woman,  but  still  a  woman,  and 
sure  Frangaise,"  observed  the  inspector. 

"  He  killed  my  only  friend,  monsieur." 

"What!    Another  murder?    Le  Cochon?" 

"Yes." 

"  Tres  bien !  Go  on,  mon  enfant ;  you  grow  more 
and  more  interesting!" 

"  It  was  only  this  morning,  monsieur,"  said  the 
child,  again  reminded  of  her  irreparable  loss. 

"  This  morning,  eh  ?  The  report  is  not  yet  in. — 
There,  now,  don't  blubber,  little  one. — Another  mur- 
der for  le  Cochon !  Pardieu !  we  shall  have  his  head !" 

"  Truly?"  Fouchette  brightened  up  immediately  at 
this  prospect. 

"  The  infamous  wretch !" 

"  Yes ;  go  on,  monsieur.  You  grow  more  interest- 
ing!" 

"  What  an  infernally  impudent  child !"  observed  the 
inspector  to  himself,  yet  aloud. 

"Monsieur?" 

"  What — how  about  this  morning's  murder?" 


64  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  Le  Cochon's  dreadful  knife !  Oh !  I  would  love 
to  see  him  strapped  to  the  plank  and  his  head  in  the 
basket !  Yes,  ten  thousand  curses  on " 

"  La !  la !  la !  Mon  Dieu !  will  you  never  get  on  ? 
Who  was  le  Cochon's  victim  this  time?" 

"  Tartar,  monsieur,— yes !    Ah !    Oh !" 

"Tartar?    Tartar?    Why,  that's  the  name  of— 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  the  dog !    Poor  Tartar !" 

"  So  le  Cochon  killed  your  dog,  eh  ?" 

"  Yes,  monsieur,"  sobbed  Fouchette. 

Monsieur  1'Inspecteur  was  silent  for  a  while, 
thoughtfully  regarding  the  grieving  child  with  his 
fishy  eyes. 

"  After  all,  it  was  murder,"  he  said.  "  Had  this  man 
committed  no  other  crime,  he  deserves  death  for  having 
killed  such  a  noble  beast." 

"  Ah !  thank  you,  monsieur !  Thank  you  very 
much!" 

Having  established  this  happy  entente,  Inspector 
Loup  and  Fouchette  entered  into  a  long  and  interest- 
ing conversation, — interesting  especially  to  the  chief  of 
the  Secret  System. 

When  the  interview  was  over  Fouchette  was  led 
away  almost  quite  happy.  Happier,  at  least,  than  she 
had  ever  been, — far  happier  than  she  had  ever  hoped 
to  be.  First,  she  had  been  promised  her  revenge ;  sec- 
ond, she  was  neither  to  go  back  to  the  Rendez-Vous 
pour  Cochers  nor  to  be  turned  into  the  street;  third, 
she  was  to  be  sent  to  a  beautiful  retreat  outside  of 
Paris,  where  she  would  be  taught  to  read  and  write 
and  be  brought  up  as  a  lady. 

It  seemed  to  the  child  that  this  was  too  good  to  be 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  65 

true.  The  country,  in  her  imagination,  was  the  source 
and  foundation  of  all  real  happiness.  There  was  noth- 
ing in  cities, — nothing  but  dust  and  crowds,  and  human 
selfishness  and  universal  hardness  of  heart,  and  toil 
and  misery. 

In  the  country  was  freedom  and  independence.  She 
had  tasted  it  in  her  furtive  morning  excursions  in  the 
wood  of  Vincennes.  Tartar  had  loved  the  country. 
The  woods,  the  fields,  and  the  flowers, — to  range 
among  them  daily,  openly  and  without  fear,  would  be 
heaven ! 

To  the  Parisian  all  outside  of  Paris  is  country. 

And  to  learn  to  read  and  to  write  and  understand 
the  newspapers  and  what  was  in  books ! 

Yes,  it  seemed  really  too  much,  all  at  once.  For  of 
all  other  things  coveted  in  this  world,  Fouchette 
deemed  such  a  knowledge  most  desirable.  Up  to  this 
moment  it  had  been  beyond  the  ordinary  flight  of  her 
youthful  imagination.  It  was  one  of  the  impossibili- 
ties,— like  flying  and  finding  a  million  of  money.  But 
now  it  had  come  to  her.  She  might  know  something 
she  had  never  seen,  or  of  which  she  had  never  heard. 

To  accomplish  all  of  this  and  to  be  in  the  country  at 
the  same  time,  what  more  could  anybody  wish  ? 

Yet  she  was  to  have  more.  The  inspector, — what 
was  this  wonderful  man,  anyhow,  who  knew  every- 
thing and  could  do  anything? — he,  the  inspector,  had 
promised  it.  She  was  to  have  human  kindness  and 
love! 

The  inspector  was  a  nice  gentleman.  And  the 
agents, — it  was  all  a  lie  about  the  agents  de  police. 
They  were  all  nice  men.  She  had  hated  and  dreaded 

5 


66  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

them ;  and  had  they  not  been  good  to  her  ?  Had  they 
not  taken  her  from  the  river  and  fed  her  and  clothed 
her  and  visited  with  swift  punishment  those  who  had 
cruelly  abused  her  ? 

Fouchette  was  learning  rapidly.  The  change  was 
so  confusing,  and  events  had  chased  one  another  so 
unceremoniously,  that  she  must  be  pardoned  if  she 
grasped  new  ideas  with  more  tenacity  than  accuracy. 
It  is  what  all  of  us  are  doing  day  by  day. 

******* 

It  was  a  long  distance  by  rail. 

Fouchette  had  never  dreamed  that  a  railroad  could 
be  so  long  and  that  the  woods  and  fields  with  which 
her  mind  had  been  recently  filled  could  become  so  mo- 
notonous and  tedious.  Even  the  towns  and  villages, — 
of  which  she  had  never  heard, — that  were  interesting 
at  first,  soon  became  stupid  and  tiresome.  She  had 
long  ceased  to  notice  them  particularly,  her  mind  being 
naturally  filled  with  thoughts  of  the  place  to  which  she 
was  going,  and  where  her  whole  future  seemed  to  lay 
yet  undeveloped.  She  finally  fell  into  a  sound  sleep. 

The  next  thing  she  knew  was  that  she  was  roughly 
shaken  by  the  shoulder,  and  a  voice  cried,  somewhat 
impatiently, — 
'    "  Come,  come !    What  a  little  sleepyhead !" 

It  was  that  of  a  "  religieuse,"  or  member  of  a  re- 
ligious order,  and  its  possessor  was  a  stout,  ruddy- 
faced  woman  of  middle  life,  garbed  in  solemn  black, 
against  which  sombre  background  the  white  wings  of 
her  homely  headpiece  and  the  white  apron,  over  which 
dangled  a  cross,  looked  still  more  white  and  glaring 
than  they  were. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  67 

Another  woman  in  the  same  glaring  uniform,  though 
less  robust  and  quite  colorless  as  to  face,  stood  near  by 
on  the  station  platform. 

"  Bring  her  things,  sister, — if  she  has  anything." 

Following  these  instructions,  the  red-faced  woman 
rummaged  in  the  netting  overhead  with  one  hand 
while  she  pulled  Fouchette  from  her  corner  with  the 
other. 

"  Come,  petite !    Is  this  all  you've  got,  child  ?" 

"  Yes,  madame,"  replied  the  child,  respectfully,  but 
with  a  sinking  heart. 

"  So  this  is  Fouchette,  eh  ?"  said  the  white- faced 
woman,  as  her  companion  joined  her  with  the  child 
and  her  little  bundle. 

"  Yes,  madame,"  faltered  Fouchette. 

But  for  the  eyes,  which  were  large  and  dark  and 
luminous,  and  which  seemed  to  grasp  the  object  upon 
which  they  rested  and  to  hold  it  in  physical  embrace, 
the  face  might  have  been  that  of  the  dead,  so  ghastly 
and  rigid  and  unnatural  it  was. 

"  She's  not  much,  very  sure,"  observed  the  other, 
turning  Fouchette  around  by  the  slender  shoulder. 

"  She'll  never  earn  her  salt,"  said  the  pale-faced 
sister. 

Fouchette  noticed  that  her  lips  were  apparently 
bloodless  and  that  she  scarcely  moved  them  as  she 
spoke. 

"  Not  for  long,  anyhow,"  responded  the  other, 
with  a  significance  Fouchette  did  not  then  under- 
stand. 

Without  other  preliminary  they  led  Fouchette  down 
the  platform. 


68  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  Where's  your  ticket  ?"  asked  the  white-faced 
woman,  coldly. 

Fouchette  nervously  searched  the  bosom  of  her 
dress.  In  France  the  railway  ticket  is  surrendered  at 
the  point  where  the  journey  ceases,  as  the  traveller 
leaves  the  station  platform. 

"  Sainte  Marie !"  exclaimed  the  ruddy-faced  sister, 
—"lost  it,  I'll  wager!" 

"  Where  on  earth  did  you  put  it,  child  ?" 

"  Here,  madame,"  said  the  latter,  still  fumbling  and 
not  a  little  frightened  at  the  possible  consequences  of 
losing  the  bit  of  cardboard.  "  Ah !  here — no,  it  isn't. 
Mon  Dieu !" 

"Fouchette!" 

The  voice  of  the  pale  religieuse  was  stern,  though 
her  face  rested  perfectly  immobile,  no  matter  what  she 
said. 

"  Let  me  see " 

"  Search,  Sister  Agnes." 

The  ruddy-faced  woman  obeyed  by  plunging  her 
fat  hand  down  the  front  of  the  child's  dress,  where 
she  fished  around  vigorously  but  unsuccessfully. 

"  Nothing  but  bones !"  she  ejaculated. 

Meanwhile,  everybody  else  had  left  the  platform, 
and  the  gatekeeper  was  growing  impatient. 

Sister  Agnes  was  a  practical  woman.  She  wound 
up  her  fruitless  search  by  shaking  the  child,  as  if  the 
latter  were  a  plum-tree  and  might  yield  over-ripe 
railway  tickets  from  its  branches. 

It  did.  The  ticket  dropped  to  the  platform  from 
beneath  the  loose-fitting  dress. 

"  There  it  is !"  cried  the  gatekeeper. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  69 

"  Stupid  little  beast !" 

And  Sister  Agnes  shook  her  again,  although,  as 
there  were  no  more  tickets,  the  act  seemed  quite  super- 
fluous. 

Outside  the  station  waited  a  sort  of  carryall,  or 
van,  drawn  by  a  single  horse,  which  turned  his  aged 
head  to  view  the  new-comer,  as  did  also  the  driver. 

"  Oh !  so  you're  coming,  eh  ?"  said  the  latter. 

"  Yes, — long  enough !"  grumbled  Sister  Agnes. 

They  had  driven  some  distance  through  the  streets 
of  a  big  town  without  a  word,  when  the  last  speaker 
addressed  her  companion  in  a  low  voice. 

"  You  noted  the  ticket?" 

"  Yes." 

Another  silence. 

"  I  don't  see  what  they  sent  her  to  us  for,  do  you  ?" 

"  That  is  for  the  Superieure." 

A  still  longer  silence. 

"  It's  a  pity,"  continued  Sister  Agnes. 

"  Yes,  they  ought  to  go  to  the  House  of  Correction." 

"  These  Parisian  police " 

"  Chut !" 

But  they  need  not  have  taken  even  this  little  precau- 
tion before  Fouchette.  She  had  long  been  lost  in  the 
profound  depths  of  her  own  gloomy  thoughts.  In  her 
isolation  she  required  but  a  single,  simple  thing  to 
render  her  happy, — a  thing  which  costs  nothing, — 
something  of  which  there  is  an  abundance  and  to 
spare  in  the  world,  thank  God! — and  that  was  a  little 
show  of  kindness. 

The  child  was  not  very  sensitive  to  bad  treatment. 
To  that  she  was  inured ;  but  she  had  tasted  the  sweets 


70  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

of  kindness,  and  it  had  inspired  hopes  that  already 
began  to  wither,  encouraged  dreams  that  had  already 
vanished. 

Fouchette  was  fast  falling  into  her  habitual  state  of 
childish  cynicism.  The  police  had  tricked  her,  no 
doubt.  She  was  more  than  suspicious  of  this  as  she 
noted  their  approach  towards  a  pile  of  buildings  sur- 
rounded by  a  high  wall,  which  reminded  her  of  La 
Roquette.  This  wall  had  great  iron  spikes  and  broken 
glass  bottles  set  in  cement  on  top,  and  seemed  to 
stretch  away  out  of  sight  in  the  growing  shadows  of 
evening.  Once  proceeding  parallel  with  the  wall,  the 
buildings  beyond  were  no  longer  visible  to  those  out- 
side. 

They  stopped  in  front  of  an  immense  arched  gate- 
way, apparently  of  the  mediaeval  period,  with  a  por- 
ter's lodge  on  one  side,  slightly  recessed.  The  gates 
were  of  stout  oak  thickly  studded  with  big-headed 
nails  and  bolts.  In  the  heavy  oaken  door  of  the  lodge 
was  set  a  brass  "  judas,"  a  small  grille  closed  by  an 
inner  slide,  and  which  might  be  operated  by  an  unseen 
hand  within  so  as  to  betray  the  identity  of  any  person 
outside  without  unbarring  the  door, — a  not  uncommon 
arrangement  in  French  gates  and  outside  doors. 

If  Fouchette  had  not  been  restricted  by  the  sides  and 
top  of  the  van,  she  might  have  seen  the  words  "  Le 
Bon  Pasteur"  carved  in  the  ancient  stone  above  the 
great  gateway.  But,  inasmuch  as  she  could  not  have 
read  the  inscription,  and  would  not  have  been  able  to 
understand  it  in  any  case,  it  was  no  great  matter. 

The  driver  of  the  van  got  down  and  let  fall  the 
old-fashioned  iron  knocker.  The  judas  showed  a 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  71 

glistening  eye  for  a  second,  then  closed.  This  was  im- 
mediately followed  by  a  slipping  of  bolts  and  a  clang- 
ing of  iron  bars,  and  then  the  big  gates  swung  inward. 
They  appeared  to  do  this  without  human  aid,  and  shut 
again  in  the  same  mysterious  way  when  the  vehicle  had 
passed. 

"  Supper,  thank  goodness !"  said  Sister  Agnes,  with 
a  sigh. 

"  You're  always  hungry " 

"  Prettly  nearly." 

"  Always  thinking  of  something  to  eat,"  continued 
the  other,  reprovingly.  "  It  is  not  a  good  example  to 
the  young,  sister.  The  carnal  appetite,  it  is  a  sin,  my 
sister,  to  flatter  it !" 

"  Dame !  As  if  one  could  possibly  be  open  to  such 
a  charge  here !"  retorted  the  ruddy-faced  Agnes. 

"  We  are  taught  to  restrain, — mortify, — pluck  out, 
— cut  off  the  offending  member.  It  is " 

"  But  what  are  we  going  to  do  with  this  child,  Sister 
Angelique?"  interrupted  Sister  Agnes,  and  abruptly 
shutting  off  the  religious  enthusiast.  "  She  must  be 
hungry.  And  the  Superieure " 

"  Cannot  be  disturbed  at  this  hour.  In  the  morning 
is  time  enough  for  an  unpleasant  subject.  Take  her 
to  No.  17, — it  is  prepared, — in  the  right  lower  corri- 
dor." 

"  Sainte  Marie !"  cried  Sister  Agnes,  crossing  her- 
self, "  as  if  I  didn't  know !  Why,  I  was  taken  to  that 
cell  myself  when  I  came  here  forty  years  ago !" 

"  Perhaps,  and  have  never  had  reason  to  regret  it, 
quite  surely.  But  take  this  child  there.  Let  her  begin 
her  new  life  with  fasting  and  prayer,  as  you  doubtless 


72  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

did,  sister.  It  will  serve  to  fit  her  to  come  before  the 
Superieure  in  the  morning  with  the  humble  spirit  of 
one  who  is  to  receive  so  much  and  who,  evidently,  can 
give  so  little." 

Fouchette  was  so  bewildered  with  her  surroundings 
that  she  paid  little  attention  to  what  was  being  said. 
The  great  irregular  piles  of  buildings,  the  going  and 
coming  of  the  ghostly  figures,  the  silence,  impressed 
her  vividly.  Of  the  nearest  building,  she  could  see 
that  the  windows  were  grated  with  iron  bars ;  her 
ears  registered  the  word  "  cell."  Fouchette  did  not 
understand  what  was  meant  by  the  expression  "  fast- 
ing and  prayer,"  but  she  had  a  definite  idea  of  a 
"  cell"  in  a  house  with  grated  windows  within  a  high 
wall. 

"  Come !  hurry  up,  my  child ;  I  want  my  supper. 
Yes,  and  I'll  see  that  they  treat  you  better  than  they  did 
me.  Come  this  way !  Yes, — mon  Dieu !  Mortify  the 
flesh!  Flatter  the  carnal  appetite!" 

She  muttered  continuously,  as  she  led  Fouchette 
along  a  dark  corridor  with  which  her  feet  were 
familiar. 

"Forty  years!  Ah!  Mother  of  God !  Pluck  it  out! 
Cut  it  off!  Blessed  Sainte  Agnes,  give  me  patience! 
Forty  years !  Holy  Mother,  pardon  me !  Forty  years ! 
Yes!  Reason  to  regret?  May  the  good  God  forgive 
me! — Here  we  are,  my  child." 

She  suddenly  stopped  and  turned  a  key,  opened  a 
door,  thrust  the  child  within,  and  paused  to  look 
around,  as  if  pursuing  her  reminiscences,  oblivious  of 
everything  else. 

It  was  a  plain  cell,  such  as  was  used  by  the  early 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  73 

monks  when  this  building  was  a  monastery,  possibly 
nine  by  six  feet,  with  a  high,  small,  grated  hole  for 
the  only  light  and  air.  A  narrow  iron  cot,  a  combina- 
tion stand,  and  a  low  stool  constituted  the  sole  furni- 
ture. A  rusty  iron  crucifix  in  the  middle  of  the  wall 
opposite  the  bed  was  the  only  decoration.  The  rest 
was  blank  stone,  staring  white  with  crumbling  white- 
wash. 

Stone  floor,  stone  walls,  stone  ceiling, — cold, 
clammy,  cheerless. 

The  floor  was  worn  into  a  smooth,  shallow  furrow 
lengthwise,  showing  where  countless  weary  inmates 
had  paced  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  during  the 
long  hours.  And  beneath  the  crucifix  were  scooped 
out  two  round  hollows  in  the  solid  rock,  where  count- 
less knees  had  bent  in  recognition  of  the  Christ. 

The  religieuse  seemed  to  forget  the  presence  of 
Fouchette,  for  she  dropped  upon  her  own  knees  in  the 
little  hollows  in  the  cold  stone  floor  beneath  the  rusty 
iron  crucifix  on  the  wall. 

"  Oh,  pardon,  my  child !"  she  exclaimed,  coming 
back  to  the  present  as  she  arose  from  prayer,  "  I  forgot. 
Forty  years  ago, — it  comes  upon  me  here." 

She  gently  removed  the  little  hat  with  its  cheap 
flowers,  then  bent  over  and  kissed  the  thin  cheeks, 
promising  to  return  soon  with  something  to  eat. 

Fouchette  heard  the  door  close,  the  key  grate  harshly 
in  the  lock. 

The  moisture  of  the  lips  and  eyes  remained  upon 
her  cheeks.  She  felt  it  still  warm,  and  involuntarily 
put  up  both  hands,  as  if  to  further  convince  herself 
that  the  kisses  were  real  and  to  hold  them  there. 


74  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

The  Christ  was  to  her  a  myth,  the  crucifix  a  vague 
superstition,  prayer  a  mere  unmeaning  mummery. 
But  the  kisses  were  tangible  and  easily  understood. 

But  oh !  the  country ! — the  woods !  the  fields !  the 
flowers ! — freedom ! 

She  threw  herself  on  the  iron  cot  and  wept  passion- 
ately. 


CHAPTER   IV 

"  LA,  la,  la !"  came  the  cheery  but  subdued  voice  of 
Sister  Agnes.  She  had  re-entered  the  cell  to  catch  the 
last  faint  sounds  of  childish  grief  coming  out  of  the 
darkness. 

"  There !  Softly  now,  petite !  Where  are  you  ?  Oh ! 
If  they  catch  me  here  at  this  hour  and  bringing — sh !" 

The  good-hearted  woman  had  groped  her  way  to 
the  cot,  raised  Fouchette  to  a  sitting  posture,  and,  sit- 
ting down  by  her  side,  pulled  the  child  over  in  her 
arms. 

Fouchette,  who  had  almost  ceased  to  weep  by  this 
time,  was  at  once  overcome  anew  by  the  motherly 
caress  and  broke  down  completely.  She  flung  her 
arms  wildly  about  Sister  Agnes's  neck  and  buried  her 
face  in  the  ample  bosom. 

"  La,  la,  la,  la !  my  little  skeleton,  there  is  nothing  to 
be  afraid  of  here.  Nothing  at  all !  Don't  take  on  so. 
God  is  everywhere,  and  takes  care  of  us  in  the  night 
as  well  as  by  day.  Fear  not !  And  here,  my  child,  see 
what  I've  brought  you!  Feel,  rather, — taste;  you 
must  be  half  starved.  Here  is  a  big,  fat  sandwich, 
and  here's  another.  And  here's  a  small  flacon  of  the 
red  wine  of  Bourgogne.  You  poor  child !  You  need 
something  for  blood.  Here's  a  bit  of  cheese,  too,  and, 
let's  see, — by  the  blessed  Sainte !  I  was  told  to  let  you 
have  bread  and  water  and  I've  actually  forgotten  the 
water ! 

"  Now  eat !  The  idea  of  a  big  girl  like  you  being 
afraid  in  the  dark!" 

75 


76  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  No,  it  was  not  that,  madame.  Mon  Dieu,  no !  I'm 
used  to  that.  Indeed,  I'm  not  afraid.  It — 

"  Then  what  on  earth  have  you  been  crying  about, 
child?" 

"  Oh,  madame !  it  is  because — because  you  are  so 
good  to  me.  Yes,  that  is  it.  I'm  not  used  to  that, — 
no!" 

Sister  Agnes  must  have  been  quite  agitated  by  this 
frank  and  unexpected  avowal,  for  she  pressed  the 
child  to  her  with  still  greater  fervor,  kissing  her  time 
and  again  more  affectionately,  after  which  she  imme- 
diately slipped  into  the  religious  rut  again  below  the 
crucifix. 

A  single  ray  of  moonlight  from  the  high  loophole 
in  the  wall  fell  athwart  the  sombre  cell  and  rested 
caressingly  upon  her  bowed  head  as  she  knelt  and 
seemed  to  bless  her. 

When  she  had  recovered  her  self-possession  she  re- 
sumed her  seat  by  the  side  of  Fouchette,  who,  mean- 
while, had  been  making  havoc  with  the  provisions. 

"  Oh !  I  was  afraid — dreadfully  afraid — that  night, 
forty  years  ago,"  she  whispered.  "  It  was  in  this  same 
place.  And  when  they  left  me  I  almost  cried  my  eyes 
out — and  screamed, — how  I  screamed!  Yet  no  one 
came.  The  next  morning  I  had  bread  and  water.  And 
the  next  night  and  day,  too.  Ah!  Sainte  Mere  de 
Dieu !  how  I  suffered !" 

Fouchette  shuddered. 

"  And  I  was  a  strong,  healthy  child,  but  wilful ; 
yet  the  dark  seemed  terrible  to  me — because  I  was 
wicked." 

Fouchette  wondered  what  dreadful  crime  this  child 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  77 

of  forty  years  ago  had  committed  to  have  been  thus 
treated.  She  must  have  been  very,  very  wicked. 

"  Yes,  forty  years  ago " 

"  How  much  did  they  give  you,  madame?" 

"Er— what's  that,  petite?" 

"  Pardon,  madame,  but  how  much  time  yet  do  you 
have  to  serve  ?" 

"  I  don't  understand,"  replied  the  puzzled  woman, 
unfamiliar  with  worldly  terms. 

"  Why,  I  mean,  how  long  did  they  send  you  up  for  ?" 
asked  the  child. 

"Send?— they?— who?" 

"  The  police." 

"  Police  ?  Mon  Dieu !  my  child,  the  police  had 
nothing  to  do  with  me." 

"  Well,  the  gendarmes." 

"  The  gendarmes  ?" 

"  No ;  you  could  never  have  been  guilty,  madame ! 
Never !  Whatever  it  was  they  charged  you  with " 

"  Charged  ?  Sainte  Marie  be  praised,  I  never  com- 
mitted any  crime  in  my  life, — unless  it  was  a  crime  to 
be  thoughtless  and  happy." 

"  I  was  sure  of  that !"  cried  Fouchette,  much  relieved 
nevertheless. 

"  Why,  I  never  was  charged  with  any !"  protested 
the  astonished  Sister  Agnes. 

"  Then  they  imprisoned  you  without  trial,  as  they 
have  me.  Ah !  mon  Dieu !  madame,  I  see  it  all  now  ! 
And  forty  years !  Oh !" 

"  Well,  blessed  be  the  saints  in  heaven !"  exclaimed 
the  enlightened  religieuse.  "  What  do  you  think  this 
place  is,  Fouchette?" 


78  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  It  is" — she  hesitated  and  changed  the  form  of 
speech — "  is  it  a — a  prison  ?" 

"  Why,  no !  Holy  Mother,  no ! — not  a  prison,  child ! 
You  thought  it " 

"  Yes,  madame,"  faltered  Fouchette. 

"  You  poor  child !    Not  so  bad  as  that ;  yet " 

"  I  see, — a  house  of  correction?" 

"  No,  not  that.  At  least,  not — ah !  if  Sister  An- 
gelique  had  heard  you  call  '  Le  Bon  Pasteur'  a  house 
of  correction  it  would  have  been  worth  three  days  of 
bread  and  water !" 

"'Le  Bon  Pasteur?'"  repeated  Fouchette. 

"  Yes,  my  child.    Didn't  you  really  know — 

"  No,  madame." 

Sister  Agnes  pondered. 

"  Then  why  should  you  remain  here  ?"  pursued  the 
curious  child.  "  Can't  you  go  away  if  you  want  to  ?" 

"  But  I  do  not  wish  to  go  now, — not  now." 

"  But  if  you  had  wished  it  at  any  time." 

Sister  Agnes  was  silent. 

"  Then  what  is  this  place,  madame?" 

"  A  retreat  for  the  poor, — an  orphan  asylum, — 
where  little  girls  who  have  neither  father  nor  mother, 
and  no  home,  are  sent.  And  where  they  are  brought 
up  to  be  good  and  industrious  young  women." 

"  D-don't  they  ever  get  out  again  ?"  asked  Fou- 
chette, somewhat  doubtfully. 

"  Oh,  yes.  They  are  set  free  at  twenty-one  years  of 
age  if  they  wish  to  go,  and  even  sooner  if  their  friends 
come  for  them.  If  they  don't  wish  to  go,  they  can  re- 
main and  become  members  of  the  order,  if  they  are 
suitable.  I  was  brought  here  at  ten  years  of  age  by 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  79 

my  aunt  and  left  temporarily,  but  my  uncle  died  and 
she  was  too  poor,  or  else  did  not  want  me,  so  I  was 
compelled  to  remain.  When  I  became  twenty-one  I 
owed  the  institution  so  much  from  failure  to  do  my 
tasks  and  fines,  and  what  my  aunt  had  promised  to 
pay  and  didn't  pay,  that  I  had  to  stay  a  long  time  and 
work  it  out,  and  by  that  time  I  had  become  so  ac- 
customed to  living  here  that  I  was  afraid  to  leave  the 
institution  and  begged  them  to  let  me  become  one  of 
the  community. 

"  Sometimes  girls  are  bad  and  so  lazy  they  won't 
work,  and  then  they  are  punished.  And  when  they 
prove  incorrigible  they  are  put  in  the  other  building, 
which  is  a  house  of  correction.  But  if  a  girl  is  good 
and  obedient  and  industrious  she  has  no  trouble,  and 
may  save  up  money  against  the  day  when  she  is  set  at 
liberty,  besides  receives  the  good  recommendation  of 
the  Superienre,  on  which  she  may  find  honest  em- 
ployment." 

While  the  good  Sister  Agnes  spoke  truly,  she  dared 
not  tell  this  child  the  whole  truth. 

She  dared  not  say  that  Le  Bon  Pasteur, — The  Good 
Shepherd, — although  ostensibly  a  charitable  institution, 
under  religious  auspices  and  subsidized  by  the  State, 
for  the  protection  and  education  of  orphan  girls  during 
their  minority,  was  practically  a  great  factory  which 
did  not  come  under  the  legal  restrictions  governing 
free  labor  in  France,  and  where  several  hundred  girls 
and  young  women,  whose  only  offence  against  society 
had  been  to  lose  their  natural  protectors,  were  sub- 
jected to  all  the  rigors  of  the  most  benighted  penal 
institutions. 


8o  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

She  dared  not  warn  this  poor  little  novice  that  her 
commitment  to  The  Good  Shepherd  was  equivalent  to 
a  sentence  of  nine  years  at  hard  labor ;  that  good  con- 
duct and  industry  would  not  earn  a  day  from  that 
term,  but  that  bad  conduct,  neglect,  or  inability  to  per- 
form allotted  tasks  would  result  not  only  in  severe 
punishments  but  an  extension  of  imprisonment  indefi- 
nitely, at  the  pleasure  of  those  who  reaped  the  finan- 
cial reward  from  the  product  of  the  sweat  of  the 
orphans. 

She  dared  not  notify  this  frail  waif  that  these  tasks 
of  the  needle  were  measured  by  the  ability  of  the  most 
expert,  and  that  the  majority  of  girls  were  obliged  to 
work  overtime  in  order  to  accomplish  them;  that  to 
many  this  was  an  impossibility,  and  to  some  death. 

She  dared  not  add  to  her  recital  of  the  money  that 
might  be  earned  and  saved  up  against  the  day  of  liberty 
that  comparatively  few  were  able  to  perform  the  extra 
work  necessary;  that  fines  and  charges  of  all  kinds 
were  resorted  to  in  order  to  reduce  such  earnings  to 
minimum;  and  that  at  the  close  of  her  nine  years  of 
hard  labor  for  Le  Bon  Pasteur  the  most  she  could 
expect  was  to  be  thrust  into  the  street  in  the  clothes 
she  wore,  without  a  cent,  without  a  friend,  without  a 
shelter. 

She  dared  not  more  than  hint  at  the  terrible  alterna- 
tives placed  before  these  young  women  from  their 
long  isolation  from  the  world, — to  remain  here 
prisoners  for  life,  or  to  cast  themselves  into  the  seeth- 
ing hell  of  Paris. 

More  than  all,  she  dared  not  add  that  all  of  this  was 
done  in  a  so-called  republic,  in  the  name  of  Civiliza- 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  81 

tion,  to  the  glory  of  modern  Religion,  in  love  of  the 
Redeemer. 

Fouchette  would  learn  all  of  this  quite  soon  enough 
through  her  own  observation  and  experience.  Why 
needlessly  embitter  her  present? 

And  this  was  well.  Besides,  the  religieuse  was 
ashamed  to  admit  these  things,  as  she  would  have  been 
afraid  to  deny  them,  being  divided  between  the  vows 
of  her  order  and  her  own  private  conscience. 

Sister  Agnes  was  a  plain,  honest  woman  of  little 
sentiment,  but  this  little  had  been  curiously  awakened 
in  her  breast  by  the  coincidence  of  the  time  and  place 
which  had  recalled  minutely  the  circumstances  of  her 
own  entrance  to  the  institution. 

She  had  unconsciously  adopted  Fouchette  from  that 
moment.  She  mentally  resolved  that  she  would  keep 
an  eye  on  this  child.  If  it  could  be  so  managed,  Fou- 
chette should  come  into  her  section.  And,  since  the 
child  was  ignorant  and  ambitious,  she  should  receive 
whatever  advantages  of  instruction  were  to  be  had. 

Quick  to  respond  to  this  sympathy,  Fouchette,  on 
her  part,  mentally  resolved  to  deserve  it.  She  would 
be  good  and  obedient,  so  that  the  sweet  lady  would 
love  her  and  continue  to  kiss  her.  How  could  girls 
be  wicked  if  all  the  women  of  the  community  of  Le 
Bon  Pasteur  were  like  Sister  Agnes  ? 

And  it  would  have  been  quite  unnatural  and  unchild- 
like,  owing  to  the  marked  improvement  in  her  condi- 
tion, if  Fouchette  had  not  gone  to  sleep  forgetting  her 
earlier  disappointment. 

******* 
6 


82  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

Five  years  in  such  a  place  are  as  one  year, — the  same 
monotonous  daily  grind  in  oblivion  of  the  great  world 
outside, — and  need  not  be  dwelt  upon  here  beyond  a 
brief  reference  to  its  results  upon  Fouchette's  charac- 
ter, when  we  must  hurry  the  reader  on  to  more  event- 
ful scenes. 

In  this  life  of  seclusion  there  were  three  saving  fea- 
tures in  Fouchette's  case.  First,  its  worst  conditions 
were  very  much  better  than  those  under  which  she 
had  formerly  lived;  second,  she  had  been  torn  from 
no  family  or  friendly  ties  which  might  have  weighed 
upon  her  fancy;  third,  but  not  least,  there  was  the 
love  of  Sister  Agnes. 

The  petite  chiffonniere's  ideas  of  life  had  been  cast 
in  a  lowly  and  humble  mould,  so  that  from  the  begin- 
ning these  new  surroundings  seemed  highly  satisfac- 
tory, if  not  in  many  respects  absolutely  joyous.  For 
instance,  the  beds  were  prison  beds,  but  they  were 
clean  and  the  dormitories  fairly  well  ventilated, — lux- 
ury to  one  who  was  accustomed  to  sleep  in  a  noisome 
cellar  on  filthy  and  envermined  straw.  The  food  was 
coarse  and  frugal,  but  it  was  regular  and  almost  prodi- 
gal to  one  habituated  to  disputing  her  breakfast  with 
vagrant  dogs.  The  clothes  were  coarse  and  cheap  and 
often  shabby,  but  to  the  child  of  rags  they  were  equiva- 
lent to  royal  gowns.  The  discipline  was  severe,  but 
it  was  unadulterated  kindness  by  the  side  of  the  bru- 
tality of  the  Podvin. 

The  society  of  respectable  young  girls  of  her  own 
age,  and  constant  contact  with  those  who  were  older 
and  of  superior  birth  and  breeding,  opened  up  a  new 
world  to  Fouchette.  That  these  companions  were 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  83 

more  or  less  partakers  of  similar  misfortunes  engen- 
dered ready  sympathies,  though  the  feeling  of  caste 
was  as  powerful  among  these  orphans  of  the  State  as 
in  the  Boulevard  St.  Germain.  Tacitly  acknowledging 
the  lowly  origin  of  the  rag-heap,  Fouchette  was  con- 
tent to  fag,  to  go  and  come,  fetch  and  carry,  and  to 
patiently  endure  the  multitude  of  petty  tyrannies  put 
upon  her.  She  accepted  this  position  from  the  start 
as  a  matter  of  course. 

But  it  was  chiefly  in  the  daily  intercourse  with  the 
cheerful,  ruddy-faced,  and  rather  worldly  as  well  as 
womanly  Sister  Agnes  that  Fouchette  found  life  worth 
living.  It  was  Sister  Agnes  who  patiently  instructed 
her  in  the  mysteries  of  reading  and  writing  and  spell- 
ing and  the  simple  rudiments  of  language  and  figures. 
Sister  Agnes  smoothed  her  young  protegee's  pathway 
through  a  sea  of  new  difficulties.  Sister  Agnes  had 
secret  struggles  of  her  own,  and  had  worn  away  con- 
siderable stone  before  the  image  of  the  Virgin  in  the 
course  of  her  seclusion ;  though  precisely  what  the  na- 
ture of  her  private  troubles  was  must  have  been  known 
to  nobody  else.  Sister  Agnes  was  not  a  favorite  with  the 
Superieure,  apparently,  since  every  time  she  was  called 
before  that  dreaded  female  functionary  she  seemed 
much  agitated  and  held  longer  conferences  with  the 
image  of  the  Virgin  in  the  little  bare  chapel.  What- 
ever her  mental  and  moral  disturbances,  however,  Sis- 
ter Agnes  never  faltered  in  her  attention  to  Fouchette. 

For  the  most  part  these  were  surreptitious,  though 
to  the  recipient  there  did  not  appear  to  be  any  reason 
for  this  concealment.  As  one  year  followed  another 
Fouchette  saw  more  clearly,  and  it  caused  her  to  re- 


84  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

double  her  exertions  to  please  the  good  woman  who 
risked  the  ill  will  of  her  superiors  to  shower  kind- 
nesses upon  the  otherwise  friendless. 

Five  years  to  a  girl  of  twelve  brings  considerable 
change  physically  as  well  as  otherwise.  The  change 
in  Fouchette  was  really  wonderful.  She  remained 
still  rather  stunted  and  undersized  at  seventeen,  though 
face  and  figure  had  developed  to  her  advantage.  The 
hardness  of  the  first  had  not  wholly  disappeared,  but 
it  was  much  modified,  while  the  bones  no  longer 
showed  through  her  dress.  Her  blonde  hair  had  be- 
come abundant,  and,  being  of  peculiar  fineness  and 
sheen,  lent  an  attractiveness  to  features  that  only  a 
slightly  tigerish  fulness  of  cheeks  prevented  from 
being  almost  classical.  This  feline  expression  of  jaws 
became  more  marked  when  she  smiled,  when  a  rather 
large  mouth  displayed  two  rows  of  formidable  teeth. 
The  pussy-cat  and  monkey-faces  are  too  common 
among  the  French  to  be  called  peculiar. 

Her  hands  and  feet  were  small,  her  frail  body  and 
limbs  straight  and  supple  as  those  of  a  young  dancer. 
While  she  excelled  at  lively  games  in  the  great  play- 
ground under  the  trees,  her  complexion  was  extremely 
delicate,  even  to  paleness.  Being  naturally  a  clever 
imitator  and  always  desirous  of  the  good  opinion  of 
Sister  Agnes,  Fouchette  had  acquired  graceful  and 
lady-like  manners  that  would  have  been  creditable  to 
any  fashionable  pension  of  Paris.  Continuous  happi- 
ness had  left  her  light-hearted  even  to  shallowness. 

Fouchette  latterly  was  not  popular.  She  had  been 
first  a  fag  and  drudge,  then  had  been  withdrawn  from 
the  work-room  to  serve  in  the  kitchen ;  from  scullery- 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  85 

maid  she  had  been  promoted  to  the  chambers  of  Sister 
Angelique,  who  was  the  stern  right  arm  of  the  Supe- 
rieure;  and,  finally,  was  transferred  to  the  holy  of 
holies  of  the  Superieure  herself. 

All  through  her  tractability  and  adaptability.  She 
was  quick  to  see  what  was  wanted,  and  lent  herself 
energetically  to  the  task  of  performance.  The  good 
sisters  encouraged  her.  Especially  in  bringing  to 
them  any  stray  ideas  she  had  picked  up  among  her 
companions.  Sister  Angelique,  severe  to  fanaticism 
in  all  the  forms  of  religion,  early  impressed  upon  the 
child  the  importance  and  imperative  duty  of  the  truth. 
It  was  not  only  a  service  to  the  community,  but  a 
service  to  the  Church  and  to  God  for  her  to  keep  her 
superiors  posted  as  to  what  was  going  on  among  the 
inmates  of  the  institution. 

It  was  a  very  trivial  thing  at  first,  then  more  trivial 
things, — mere  gossip  of  children.  Then  her  informa- 
tion resulted  in  the  cell  and  paddle  for  the  unfortunate 
and  began  to  be  talked  about  on  the  playground  and 
in  the  work-room.  When  she  heard  what  had  hap- 
pened, Fouchette  was  conscience-stricken  and  ran  to 
Sister  Agnes  for  consolation.  The  latter  was  so  con- 
fused and  contradictory  in  her  definition  of  right  and 
wrong,  as  to  how  far  one  might  go  for  Christ's  sake, 
that  Fouchette  was  left  in  doubt.  And  when  Sister 
Angelique  asked  her  for  the  name  of  the  girl  who  com- 
mitted an  offence  in  the  dormitory,  Fouchette  hesi- 
tated and  wanted  to  consult  Sister  Agnes. 

The  result  was  that  Sister  Agnes  was  called  before 
the  Superieure,  and  was  compelled  to  instruct  Fou- 
chette that  whatever  was  required  of  her  by  those  in 


86  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

4 

authority  was  right  and  should  be  done.  It  is  a  doc- 
trine as  universal  as  the  Christian  religion. 

So  Fouchette  told,  and  the  tale  brought  to  the  of- 
fender five  days'  diet  of  bread  and  water  in  a  cell. 

As  a  tale-bearer  who  was  not  afraid  to  tell  the  truth 
Fouchette  had  in  the  course  of  time  ingratiated  herself 
into  the  favor  of  Sister  Angelique,  and  finally,  as  has 
been  shown  by  her  transfer  to  the  governing  regions, 
became  the  factotum  of  the  Superieure.  These  ser- 
vices carried  privileges. 

They  also  brought  unpopularity.  On  the  playground 
Fouchette  began  to  be  avoided.  In  the  work-room 
voices  suddenly  became  hushed  as  she  passed.  In  the 
dormitory  she  began  to  experience  coldness  and  hos- 
tile demonstrations. 

Yet  up  to  the  present  she  had  been  suspected  only. 
When  the  growing  suspicion  became  a  certainty  she 
was  assaulted  in  the  dormitory  in  the  presence  of  a 
matron.  The  biggest  and  stoutest  girl  of  the  section 
pulled  her  from  her  bed  in  the  dark  and  began  to  beat 
her.  There  was  no  outcry  at  first, — only  a  silent  strug- 
gle on  the  floor. 

But  the  stout  young  woman  had  counted  too  much 
on  her  physical  strength  and  upon  the  supposed  weak- 
ness of  her  frail  antagonist.  For  Fouchette  was  like 
a  cat  in  another  respect, — she  fought  best  on  her  back, 
where  she  was  all  hands  and  feet  and  teeth.  Before 
the  fat  matron  could  find  them  between  the  beds  the 
big  girl  was  yelling  for  mercy  and  the  whole  section 
of  a  hundred  girls  was  in  an  uproar. 

"  Help !  help !"  screamed  the  girl.  "  She's  murder- 
ing me !" 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  87 

"Who?    Where?" 

"Silence!" 

"•Quick!  Help!  She's  killing  me!  Fouchette! 
It's  Mademoiselle  Fouchette!" 

The  matron  was  thus  guided  to  Fouchette's  bed, 
where  she  found  the  latter  tearing  the  big  girl's  ear 
with  her  teeth,  and  with  her  hands  clawing  the  big 
girl's  face. 

To  this  moment  Fouchette  had  not  uttered  a  word. 
Then  she  let  flow  a  torrent  of  language  such  as  had 
never  before  been  heard  within  the  sacred  precincts  of 
Le  Bon  Pasteur.  She  could  no  more  be  stopped  than 
an  avalanche. 

The  girls  of  the  dormitory  closed  their  ears  in  their 
fright  at  this  flood  of  profanity. 

"  Stop !  stop !  stop !"  cried  the  matron,  now  over- 
come with  horror.  "  You  belong  in  the  Reformatory ! 
You  shall  go  to  the  Reformatory !  You  shall  have  the 
bath  and  the  paddle,  you  vile  vixen !" 

And  Fouchette's  vocabulary  having  been  exhausted 
for  the  time  being,  she  ceased. 

Meanwhile,  a  light  was  brought,  and  attendants 
came  running  in  from  the  other  parts  of  the  build- 
ing. 

Notwithstanding  the  confused  explanation,  and  the 
fact  that  the  aggressor's  bed  was  at  some  distance 
from  the  spot  where  the  two  were  discovered,  which 
sustained  the  charge  of  Fouchette  that  the  latter  had 
been  first  attacked,  the  terrible  condition  of  the  big 
girl  was  such  that  Fouchette  was  sent  to  a  cell  and 
held  in  close  confinement  till  the  next  evening. 

She  was  then  taken  to  Sister  Angelique,  where  she 


88  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

was  examined  as  to  her  version  of  the  occurrence.  The 
victim  of  her  nails  and  teeth  also  had  a  hearing. 

Between  the  two,  and  considering  all  the  circum- 
stances, Sister  Angelique  came  to  the  proper  conclu- 
sion, and  so  reported  the  case  to  the  Superieure. 

The  latter  had  Fouchette  brought  before  her.  She 
was  a  very  flabby  and  masculine  woman,  of  great 
brains  and  keen  penetration,  and  invariably  had  an 
oleaginous  Jesuit  priest  at  her  elbow  on  important  oc- 
casions to  strengthen  her  religious  standing  and  to 
give  her  decisions  the  force  and  effect  of  ecclesiastical 
law. 

"  Father  Sebastien,"  said  the  Superieure,  "  this  is  a 
grievous  case.  What  are  we  to  do  with  these  girls 
that  fight  like  tigers, — that  set  the  whole  blessed  insti- 
tution of  Le  Bon  Pasteur  by  the  ears  ?" 

The  Jesuit  rubbed  his  hands,  eying  the  slender  figure 
before  them  curiously. 

"  A  sad  case, — a  very  sad  case,"  he  muttered ;  "  and 
yet " 

"  Mademoiselle  Fouchette  has  been  of  good  service 
to  us,  and " 

"  And  has  invited  this  attack  by  her  friendliness  for 
the  institution.  No  doubt, — no  doubt  at  all,"  said  the 
priest. 

"  But  it  is  necessary  to  punish  somebody,"  persisted 
the  Superieure,  "  else  we  shall  lose  control  of  these  hot- 
heads." 

"  How  about  the  other  one  ?    Mademoiselle " 

"  Mademoiselle  Angot " 

"  Yes." 

"  She's  pretty  well  punished  as  it  is.    She  looks  as 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  89 

if  she  had  been  through  a  threshing-machine.  How 
such  a  chit  could " 

Father  Sebastien  laughed,  in  his  low,  gurgling  way, 
and  rubbed  his  hands  some  more,  still  eying  Fouchette. 

"  She's  been  a  good  girl  for  five  years,  you  say?" 

"  Yes,  Father ;  we  could  not  complain." 

"  Five  years  is  a  very  long  time  to — to — for  a  girl 
like  her  to  be  good.  Is  it  not  so  ?" 

"  Truly." 

"  And  yet  they  say  her  language  was  dreadfully — 
er — ah — improper." 

"  If  you  were  pulled  out  of  bed  in  the  night  and 
beaten  because  you  spoke  the  truth  to  the  Superieure," 
broke  in  Fouchette  at  this  point,  "  you'd  probably  use 
bad  language  too !" 

"  Chut!  child,"  said  the  Superieure,  smiling  in  spite 
of  herself. 

"Oh!  me?" 

"  La,  la !  Father."    The  Superieure  now  laughed. 

"  Quite  possibly,"  he  added, — "  quite  possibly.  But 
in  a  demoiselle  like  you " 

"  I'm  afraid  to  send  her  back  to  the  dormitory.  Are 
you  afraid  to  go  back  there,  Fouchette  ?" 

"  No,  madame,"  replied  Fouchette. 

"  I  think  they'll  leave  her  alone  after  this,"  said  the 
priest. 

"  They'd  better,"  said  Fouchette. 

"Oho!" 

"  But  you  must  not  quarrel,  my  dear, — remember 
that.  And  if  they — well,  you  come  to  me  or  to  Sis- 
ter  " 

"  Sister  Agnes,  yes " 


90  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  No,  no ;  Sister  Angelique,"  interrupted  the  Supe- 
rieure,  tartly.  "  Sister  Agnes  has  nothing  to  do  with 
you  hereafter." 

"  Wh-at?    But  Sister  Agnes " 

"  Now  don't  stand  there  and  argue.  I  repeat  that 
Sister  Agnes  is  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  you  here- 
after. Sister  Agnes  has  gone " 

"Gone!" 

It  was  the  worst  blow — the  only  blow  she  had  re- 
ceived in  these  five  years.  Her  swollen  lips  quivered. 

"  I  say  Sister  Agnes  has  gone.  You  will  never  see 
her  again.  And  it's  a  good  riddance!  I  never  could 
bear  that  woman !" 

"  Oh,  madame !  madame !" 

Fouchette  sank  to  her  knees  appealingly. 

"Get  up!" 

"Oh,  madame!" 

"  Get  up !    Not  another  word !" 

"  But,  madame !" 

"  There,  my  child,"  put  in  the  priest.    "  You  hear?" 

"  But  Sister  Agnes  was  my  only  friend  here.  Where 
has  she  gone?  Tell  me  why  she  has  gone.  Oh,  mon 
Dieu !  Gone !  and  left  me  here  without  a  word !  Oh ! 
oh!  madame!" 

"  She's  gone  because  I  sent  her, — because  it  is  her 
sworn  duty  to  obey, — to  go  where  she  is  sent.  Where 
and  why  is  none  of  her  business,  much  less  yours. 
Now  let  us  hear  no  more  from  you  on  that  point,  or 
you  will  forfeit  the  leniency  I  was  about  to  extend 
to  you.  Go !" 

"  But,  madame,"  supplicated  Fouchette,  "  hear  me ! 
Sister  Agnes " 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  91 

The  Superieure  was  now  furious.  She  rang  a  little 
bell,  waving  Father  Sebastien  aside.  Two  sisters  ap- 
peared,— her  personal  attendants,  well  known  to  those 
who  had  suffered  punishment. 

"  Give  this  girl  the  douche !" 

"  Madame !"  screamed  Fouchette. 

"  Give  her  the  douche — for  fighting  in  the  dormi- 
tory. In  the  refectory.  Assemble  everybody!  And 
if  she  resists  let  her  have  the  paddle.  If  that  doesn't 
bring  her  to  her  senses,  give  her  five  days  on  bread  and 
water.  I'll  take  that  rebellious  spirit  out  of  her 
or " 

The  two  women  hustled  the  trembling  Fouchette 
away  from  the  Presence. 

Fouchette  knew  the  disgrace  of  the  douche.  She 
had  seen  grown  young  women  stripped  stark  naked 
before  five  hundred  girls  and  have  a  bucket  of  ice-cold 
water  thrown  over  them.  One  of  them  had  been  ill 
and  was  unable  to  do  her  work.  She  had  died  from 
the  effects. 

Fouchette  understood  the  terrible  significance  of  the 
paddle.  A  girl  was  stripped  and  strung  up  by  the 
wrists  to  a  door  and  was  beaten  with  a  heavy  leather 
strap  soaked  in  brine  until  the  blood  ran  down  her 
thighs. 

Fouchette  comprehended  the  character  of  the  five 
days  on  bread  and  water,  wherein  the  victim  was 
forced  to  remain  in  her  own  filth  for  five  days  with 
nothing  to  eat  but  a  half-loaf  of  stale  bread  and  a 
small  pitcher  of  water  per  twenty-four  hours. 

Yet,  dreadful  as  was  this  immediate  prospect,  and 
as  cruel  as  was  the  injustice  meted  out  to  her,  Fou- 


92  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

chette  thought  only  of  Sister  Agnes.  She  would  have 
gone  to  punishment  like  a  Stoic  of  old  could  some- 
body have  assured  her  that  what  she  had  just  heard 
was  false  and  that  Sister  Agnes  was  yet  in  the  insti- 
tution. Everything  else  and  all  together  seemed 
dwarfed  by  the  side  of  this  one  great  overwhelming 
calamity. 

"  How  could  you  have  so  angered  Madame  ?"  said 
one  of  her  conductors, — both  of  whom  were  aware  that 
she  was  to  be  unjustly  punished. 

"  Be  good,  now,  Fouchette,"  whispered  the  other ; 
"  besides,  it  is  nothing, — a  little  water, — bah !" 

They  were  leading  her  along  a  dark  corridor, 
the  same  through  which  she  had  been  taken  five 
years  before.  It  rushed  over  her  now, — dear  Sister 
Agnes! 

"  I  only  wanted  to  know  about  Sister  Agnes,"  pro- 
tested Fouchette. 

Her  conductors  stopped  short. 

"  S-sh !    Mademoiselle  did  not  know  that " 

"That  what?" 

"  Better  tell  her,  sister,"  encouraged  the  other 
woman. 

"  That  Sister  Agnes  was — was  suspected  of  being  a 
creature  of  the  Secret  Police  ?" 

"  N-no,  madame,"  faltered  the  girl, — "  I  don't  un- 
derstand. And  if " 

"  And  we  are  for  the  restoration " 

"  The  restoration " 

"  Of  the  throne  of  France." 

"  Is  it  Inspector  Loup  ?"  asked  Fouchette,  suddenly 
recalling  that  personage. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  93 

"  Inspector  Loup, — it  is  he  who  is  responsible  for 
the  withdrawal  of  Sister  Agnes,  mademoiselle." 

"  Paris, — I  will  go  to  Paris !"  said  Fouchette,  bright- 
ening up  all  at  once. 

To  the  two  who  heard  her  it  was  as  if  Fouchette  had 
said,  "  I  will  go  to  the  moon." 

She  slipped  from  between  them  and  darted  down 
the  corridor.  Before  they  had  recovered  from  their 
astonishment  she  was  out  of  the  building  and  out  of 
sight. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  absurd. 

But  one  girl  had  succeeded  in  scaling  the  high  walls 
that  surrounded  the  establishment  of  Le  Bon  Pasteur, 
and  she  had  been  pursued  by  savage  dogs  kept  for 
such  exigencies  and  brought  back  in  mere  shreds  of 
clothing,  with  her  flesh  terribly  lacerated.  Even  once 
outside,  if  the  feat  were  possible  and  the  dogs  avoided, 
how  was  a  bareheaded  girl  without  a  sou  to  get  to 
Paris,  three  hundred  kilometres?  And,  that  sur- 
mounted, what  would  become  of  her  in  Paris? 

It  was  absurd.    It  was  impossible. 

Meanwhile,  Fouchette  evaded  the  now  lighted  build- 
ings in  the  rear  and  was  skirting  the  high  walls  to- 
wards the  north  with  the  fleetness  of  a  young  deer. 

The  grounds  of  Le  Bon  Pasteur  embraced  about  ten 
acres,  a  well-wooded  section  of  an  ancient  park,  the 
buildings,  old  and  new,  being  on  the  side  next  to  the 
town.  By  day  one  might  easily  see  from  wall  to  wall, 
the  lowest  branches  of  the  trees  being  well  clear  of 
the  ground,  the  latter  being  trampled  grassless,  hard, 
and  smooth  by  thousands  of  youthful  feet. 

It  was  now  growing  too  dark  to  see  more  than  a 


94  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

few  yards.  This  did  not  prevent  Fouchette  from 
making  good  speed.  She  knew  every  inch  of  the 
park.  And  as  she  ran  her  thoughts  kept  on  well 
ahead. 

She  had  started  with  the  definite  idea  of  leaving  the 
place,  but  without  the  slightest  idea  of  how  that  was 
to  be  accomplished.  Like  a  frightened  rabbit  running 
an  enclosure,  she  sought  in  vain  for  some  unheard-of 
opening, — some  breach  in  the  wall,  some  projections 
by  which  she  might  scale  the  frowning  barrier. 

Now  and  then  she  paused  to  listen  intently.  There 
were  no  pursuers,  apparently.  Her  heart  sank  rather 
than  rose  at  the  thought;  for  it  implied  that  the 
chances  of  her  escape  were  not  considered  worth  an 
energetic  effort, — that  she  must  inevitably  return  of 
her  own  accord. 

Fouchette  was  mistaken.  It  was  only  that  the  pur- 
suers were  not  so  sure  of  their  route  and  were  not  so 
fleet  of  foot.  They  had  called  in  re-enforcements  and 
were  approaching  in  extended  order  beneath  the  trees, 
with  the  moral  certainty  of  rounding  her  up. 

As  soon  as  Fouchette  realized  this  she  felt  that  she 
was  lost.  There  was  no  place  to  hide  from  such  a 
search, — then  they  could  let  loose  the  dogs ! 

With  a  fresh  energy  born  of  desperation  she  sprang 
at  the  chestnut-tree  in  front  of  her  and  began  to  shin 
up  the  rough  trunk,  boy  fashion.  Like  most  generali- 
zations, the  statement  that  a  woman  cannot  climb  a 
tree  is  not  an  axiomatic  truth.  It  depends  wholly  upon 
the  woman  and  the  occasion.  Fouchette  had  often 
amused  her  playmates  by  going  up  trees,  and  was  con- 
sidered a  valuable  addition  to  any  party  of  chestnut 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  95 

hunters.  So  in  this  instance  the  woman  and  the  occa- 
sion met.  She  was  securely  perched  in  the  foliage 
when  the  scouting  party  went  by.  One  sister  walked 
directly  beneath  the  tree. 

"  We  ought  to  have  brought  the  dogs,"  she  mut- 
tered. 

Fouchette  was  breathless. 

Immediate  danger  past,  she  began  to  think  of  what 
she  should  do  next.  She  could  not  remain  up  there 
forever;  and  if  she  came  down  she  would  be  just 
where  she  was  before, — would  probably  be  run  down 
by  the  dogs. 

Presently  she  saw  a  light  glimmering  through  the 
trees.  Cautiously  pushing  the  leaves  aside,  she  saw 
it  more  distinctly.  It  was  bobbing  up  and  down.  It 
was  a  lantern.  It  was  coming  towards  her.  Being  a 
lantern,  it  must  be  carried  by  somebody,  and  that  this 
somebody  was  in  search  of  her  she  had  no  doubt.  All 
the  world  was  out  after  her. 

The  lantern  came  closer.  And  then  she  saw  the 
barbed  iron  wall  immediately  below  her,  between  her 
and  the  lantern.  It  was  outside,  then;  and  the  tree 
she  was  in  seemed  to  overhang  the  wall. 

A  desperate  hope  arose  within  her, — scarcely  a  hope 
yet, — rather  a  vague  fancy.  They  could  not  have 
spread  the  alarm  outside  so  quickly, — the  lantern  and 
its  bearer  could  have  no  reference  to  her  escape. 

It  was  now  almost  immediately  beneath  her,  and  she 
saw  that  it  was  borne  by  a  stalwart  young  man.  It 
was  a  chance, — a  mere  chance, — but  she  at  once  re- 
solved to  risk  it. 

"S-sh!" 


96  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

The  bearer  of  the  lantern  stopped,  raised  it  high,  and 
peered  about  in  every  direction. 

"  S-sh !"  repeated  Fouchette. 

"  S-sh  yourself !"  said  the  young  man,  evidently 
suspecting  some  trick. 

"  Not  so  loud  if  you  please,  monsieur." 

"  Not  so — but  where  the  devil  are  you,  anyhow  ?" 
He  had  looked  in  every  direction  except  the  right  one. 

"  Here,"  whispered  Fouchette.    "  Up  in  the  tree." 

"  Tonnerre !  And  what  are  you  doing  up  there  in 
the  tree,  mademoiselle?"  he  inquired  with  astonish- 
ment, elevating  his  lantern  so  as  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the 
owner  of  the  voice. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Fouchette. 

"  Well,  if  this  don't — say,  mademoiselle." 

"  Please  don't  talk  so  loud,  monsieur.  They  will 
hear  you,  and  I  will  be  lost." 

"  Indeed !     So  you're  running  away,  eh  ?" 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

"What  for?" 

"  Because  they  are  going  to  give  me  the  douche,  the 
paddle,  and  prison." 

"  The  wretches !"  whispered  the  young  man  through 
his  half-set  teeth. 

"Then  you'll  help  me,  monsieur?"  asked  Fouchette, 
in  a  tone  of  entreaty. 

"  That  I  will,"  said  he,  promptly,  "  if  I  can.  If  you 
could  swing  yourself  over  the  wall,  now ;  but,  dame ! 
no  girl  can  do  that,"  he  added  half  to  himself. 

"  I'll  try  it,"  said  Fouchette. 

"  Don't  do  it,  mademoiselle ;  you'll  break  your  neck." 

For  answer  to  this,  Fouchette,  who  had  been  work- 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  97 

ing  her  dangerous  way  out  on  the  uncertain  branches, 
holding  tenaciously  to  those  above,  so  as  to  wisely  dis- 
tribute her  weight,  only  said, — 

"  Look  out,  now !" 

There  was  no  time  to  parley, — it  was  her  only  hope, 
— and  if  she  fell  inside  the  wall 

A  splash  among  the  leaves  and  a  violent  reversal  of 
branches  relieved  of  her  weight  and — and  a  ripping 
sound. 

"  Oh,  mon  Dieu !"  she  gasped. 

She  had  swung  clear,  but  her  skirts  had  caught  the 
iron  spikes  as  she  came  down  and  now  held  her  firmly, 
head  downward, — a  very  embarrassing  predicament. 

"  Put  out  the  light,  monsieur,  please !" 

He  gallantly  closed  the  slide  and  sprang  to  her 
assistance. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  mademoiselle.  Let  go, — I'll  catch 
you.  Let  go!" 

«  Oh,  but  I " 

"Let  go!" 

"  Sacre  bleu !  I  can't,  monsieur !  I'm  stuck  like  a 
fish  on  a  gaff !  My  skirts " 

This  startling  intelligence,  while  it  relieved  his  im- 
mediate anxiety,  involved  the  young  man  in  a  painful 
quandary.  He  dared  not  call  for  help;  he  was  likely 
to  be  arrested  in  any  case ;  he  could  not  go  away  and 
leave  the  girl  dangling  there.  She  was  at  least  three 
feet  beyond  his  extreme  reach. 

"  Let's  see,"  he  said,  hastily  grabbing  his  lantern  to 
make  an  examination. 

"  Oh,  put  out  that  light !"  exclaimed  the  girl. 

"  But,  mademoiselle,  I  can't  see " 

7 


98  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  Mon  Dieu !  monsieur,  I  don't  wish  you  to  see ! 
No !  I  should — put  down  the  lantern !" 

Having  complied  with  this  request,  he  stood  under 
her  in  despair. 

"  Can't  you  tear  the — the — what-you-may-call-it 
loose?" 

"  No ;  it's  my  skirt, — my  dress, — I'm  slipping  out  of 
it.  Look  out,  monsieur,  for — I'm — coming — oh!" 

And  come  she  did,  head  first,  minus  the  dress  skirt, 
plump  into  the  startled  young  man's  arms. 


CHAPTER   V 

"  ME  voila !"  said  Fouchette,  gaining  her  feet  and 
lightly  shaking  her  ruffled  remains  together,  as  if  she 
were  a  young  pullet  that  had  calmly  fluttered  down 
from  the  roost. 

"  Well,  you're  a  bird !"  he  ejaculated,  the  more  em- 
barrassed of  the  two. 

"  Mon  Dieu !  monsieur,  but  for  you  I'd  soon  have 
been  a  dead  bird !  I  thank  you  ever  so  much." 

She  reached  up  at  him  and  succeeded  in  pecking  a 
little  kiss  on  his  chin.  It  was  her  first  attempt  at  the 
masculine  mouth  and  she  could  scarcely  be  censured 
if  she  missed  it. 

"  It  certainly  was  a  lucky  chance  that  I  came  this 
way  at  the  moment,"  he  said. 

"  It  was,  indeed,"  she  assented. 

He  was  surveying  her  now  by  the  light  of  his  lan- 
tern; and  he  smiled  at  her  slight  figure  in  the  short 
petticoat.  Her  blind  confidence  in  him  and  her  gen- 
eral assurance  amused  him. 

"  Where  were  you  thinking  of  going,  mademoi- 
selle?" 

"  To  Paris." 

"Paris!" 

The  young  man  almost  dropped  his  lantern.  Paris 
seemed  out  of  reach  to  him. 

"And  why  not,  monsieur?" 

"  Er — well,  mademoiselle,  climbing  a  tree  and  throw- 
ing one's  self  head  over  heels  over  a  wall — er — 

and " 

99 


ioo  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  And  leaving  ones  skirt  hanging  on  the  spikes— 

"  Yes, — is  not  the  customary  way  for  young  ladies 
to  start  for  Paris.  But  I  suppose  you  know  what  you 
are  about." 

"  If  I  only  had  my  skirt." 

Fouchette  glanced  up  at  the  offending  member  of 
her  attire  which  she  had  cast  from  her. 

"  Never  mind  that, — I'll  return  and  get  it.  Come 
with  me,  mademoiselle.  I  live  near  by,  and  my  mother 
and  sisters  will  protect  you  for  the  time  being.  Come ! 
Where's  your  hat?" 

"  I  didn't  have  time " 

"  You  didn't  stop  to  pack  your  bundle,  eh  ?" 

"  Not  exactly,  monsieur." 

They  walked  along  silently  for  a  few  yards,  follow- 
ing the  wall. 

"  You  have  relatives  in  Paris,  mademoiselle  ?"  he 
finally  asked. 

"  No,  monsieur." 

"Friends,  then?" 

"  Well,  yes." 

"  It  is  good.  Paris  is  no  place  for  a  young  girl  alone. 
Besides,  it  is  just  now  a  scene  of  riot  and  bloodshed. 
It  is  in  a  state  bordering  on  revolution.  All  France  is 
roused.  Royalists  and  Bonapartists  have  combined 
against  the  life  of  the  republic.  Paris  is  swarming  with 
troops.  There  will  be  barricades  and  fighting  in  the 
streets,  mademoiselle." 

Fouchette  recalled  the  fragments  of  conversations 
overheard, — conversations  between  the  Superieure  and 
Father  Sebastien  and  certain  visitors.  Beyond  this 
casual  information  she  knew  absolutely  nothing  of 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  101 

what  was  going  on  in  the  outer  world.  He  miscon- 
strued her  silence. 

"  Whom  do  you  know  in  Paris,  mademoiselle  ? — 
somebody  powerful  enough  to  protect  you?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  monsieur,"  she  promptly  answered.  "  I 
know  one  man, — one  who  sent  me  here, — who  is 
powerful " 


"  May  I  ask- 


"  The  Chief  of  the  Secret  Police,"  she.  said,  lowering 
her  tone  to  a  confidential  scale, — "  Inspector  Loup." 

"  Oh,  pardon,  mademoiselle !"  quickly  responded  the 
young  man.  "  Pardon !  I  meant  it  for  your  welfare, 
not  to  inquire  into  your  business.  Oh,  no;  do  not 
think  me  capable  of  that !" 

He  appeared  to  be  somewhat  frightened  at  what  he 
had  done,  but  became  reassured  when  she  passed  it 
with  easy  good  nature. 

"  It  is  important,  then,  mademoiselle,  that  you  reach 
Paris  at  once?" 

"  It  is  very  important,  monsieur." 

"  The  royalist  scoundrels  are  very  active,"  he  said. 
"  They  must  be  headed  off — exposed !" 

He  spoke  enthusiastically,  seizing  Fouchette's  hand 
warmly.  That  demoiselle,  who  was  floundering  around 
in  a  position  she  did  not  understand,  walked  along  re- 
solved to  keep  her  peace.  He  assured  her  that  she 
might  fully  rely  upon  him  and  his  in  this  emergency. 
Let  her  put  him  to  the  test. 

The  enigmatical  situation  was  more  confounding  to 
Fouchette  when  she  was  being  overwhelmed  with  the 
subservient  attentions  of  the  young  man's  family ;  but 
the  less  she  comprehended  the  more  she  held  her 


102  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

tongue.  They  were  of  the  class  moderately  well-to-do 
and  steeped  in  politics  up  to  the  neck. 

Fouchette  knew  next  to  nothing  about  politics.  Only 
that  France  was  a  republic  and  that  many  were  dis- 
satisfied with  that  form  of  government;  that  some 
wanted  the  empire,  and  others  the  restoration  of  the 
kings,  and  still  others  anything  but  existing  things. 
Having  never  been  called  upon  to  form  an  opinion, 
Fouchette  had  no  opinion  on  the  subject.  She  did  not 
care  a  snap  what  kind  of  a  government  ruled, — it  could 
make  no  difference  to  her. 

Coming  in  contact  with  all  of  this  enthusiasm,  she 
now  knew  that  Le  Bon  Pasteur  was  royalist  for  some 
reason ;  and  she  shrewdly  guessed,  without  the  assist- 
ance of  this  family  conviction,  that  all  Jesuits,  what- 
ever they  might  otherwise  be,  were  also  royalists.  And, 
as  Inspector  Loup  was  a  part  of  the  existing  govern-1 
ment,  he  must  be  a  republican, — which  was  not  so 
shrewd  as  it  was  logical;  therefore  that  if  Sister 
Agnes  was  suspected  of  being  friendly  to  Inspector 
Loup,  the  good  sister  was  a  republican  and  naturally 
the  political  enemy  of  the  managers  of  Le  Bon  Pasteur. 
Whatever  Sister  Agnes  was  it  must  be  right. 

But  in  holding  her  tongue  Fouchette  was  most  clever 
of  all, — whereas,  usually,  the  less  people  know  about 
government  the  more  persistently  they  talk  politics. 

The  young  man  went  back  to  the  wall  with  a  fish- 
pole  and  rescued  the  recalcitrant  skirt,  much  to  her 
delight.  His  mother  mended  the  rents  in  it  and  his 
sisters  fitted  her  out  with  a  smart  hat. 

It  was  soon  developed  that  Fouchette  had  no  money. 
This  brought  about  a  family  consultation. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  103 

"  I  must  go  to  Paris,"  said  Fouchette,  determinedly, 
"if  I  have  to  walk!" 

"  Nonsense !"  said  the  young  man. 

"  Nonsense !"  chimed  in  mother  and  sisters. 

"  I'll  fix  you  all  right,"  finally  declared  the  young 
man,  "  on  a  single  condition, — that  you  carry  a  letter 
from  me  to  Inspector  Loup  and  deliver  it  into  his  own 
hands,  mademoiselle.  Is  it  a  bargain?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  monsieur, — very  sure !"  cried  the  girl,  al- 
most overcome  by  this  last  good  fortune.  "  You  are 
very  good, — it  would  be  a  pleasure,  monsieur,  I  assure 
you." 

"  And  if  you  were  to  tell  him  the  part  I  have  taken 
to-night  in  your  case  it  would  be  of  great  service, — 
if  you  would  be  so  good,  mademoiselle.  Not  that  it  is 
anything,  but- " 

"  You  may  be  assured  of  that,  too,"  said  Fouchette, 
who,  however,  did  not  understand  what  possible  in- 
terest lay  in  this  direction. 

They  were  all  so  effusive  and  apparently  grateful 
that  she  was  made  to  believe  herself  a  very  important 
personage. 

As  the  letter  was  brought  out  immediately,  she  saw 
that  it  was  already  prepared,  and  wondered  why  it  was 
not  sent  by  post. 

Another  family  consultation,  and  it  was  decided  that 
Fouchette  might  lose  the  letter  by  some  accident;  so, 
on  the  suggestion  of  the  mother,  it  was  carefully  sewn 
in  the  bosom  of  their  emissary's  dress. 

It  was  also  suggested  that,  since  an  effort  for  Fou- 
chette's  recapture  might  include  the  careful  scrutiny 
of  the  trains  for  Paris  the  next  day,  she  should  be 


104  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

accompanied  at  once  to  a  suburban  town  where  she 
could  take  the  midnight  express. 

All  of  these  details  were  not  settled  without  con- 
siderable discussion,  in  which  Fouchette  came  to  the 
private  conclusion  that  they  were  even  more  anxious 
for  her  to  get  to  Paris  than  she  was  herself,  if  such  a 
thing  were  possible. 

******* 

Fouchette  arrived  in  Paris  and  alighted  at  the  Gare 
de  TEst  at  a  very  early  hour  in  the  morning.  Her 
idea  had  been  to  go  direct  to  the  Prefecture  and  de- 
mand the  whereabouts  of  Sister  Agnes.  Incidentally 
she  would  deliver  the  mysterious  letter  intrusted  to 
her. 

But  during  her  journey  Fouchette  had  enjoyed  am- 
ple time  for  reflection.  She  was  not  absolutely  certain 
of  her  reception  at  the  hands  of  Inspector  Loup ;  could 
not  satisfy  her  own  mind  that  he  would  receive  her  at 
all.  Besides,  would  he  really  know  anything  about 
Sister  Agnes  ? 

Fouchette's  self-confidence  had  been  oozing  away  in 
the  same  ratio  as  she  was  nearing  her  journey's  end. 
When  she  had  finally  arrived  she  was  almost  fright- 
ened at  the  notion  of  meeting  Inspector  Loup.  He  had 
threatened  her  with  prison.  He  might  regard  her  now 
as  an  escaped  convict.  On  the  whole,  Fouchette  was 
really  sorry  she  had  run  away.  Back  again  in  Paris, 
where  she  had  suffered  so  much,  she  realized  again 
that  there  were  worse  places  for  a  girl  than  Le  Bon 
Pasteur.  Anyhow,  it  was  early, — there  was  plenty  of 
time, — she  would  consider. 

She  took  the  tramway  of  the  Boulevards  Straus- 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  105 

bourg  and  Sebastopol,  climbing  to  the  imperial,  where 
a  seat  was  to  be  had  for  three  sous. 

What  crowds  of  people ! 

She  wds  surprised  to  see  the  great  human  flood 
pouring  down  the  boulevards  and  side  streets  at  such 
an  early  hour  in  the  morning.  But  her  volatile  nature 
rose  to  the  touch  of  excitement.  She  at  once  forgot 
everything  else  but  the  street.  Fouchette  was  a  true 
Parisienne. 

"  Paris !"  she  murmured ;  "  dear  Paris !" 

As  if  Paris  had  blessed  her  childhood  with  pleasure, 
instead  of  having  starved  and  beaten  her  and  degraded 
her  to  the  level  of  beasts ! 

"Where  on  earth  are  all  of  these  people  going?" 
she  asked  herself. 

There  were  now  and  then  cries  of  "  Vive  1'armee !" 
"  Vive  la  republique !"  and  "  Vive  la  France !"  while 
the  excitement  seemed  to  grow  as  they  reached  the 
Porte  St.  Denis. 

"  What  is  it,  monsieur  ?"  she  finally  asked  the  man 
at  her  side. 

"  It  is  the  25th  of  October,"  said  he. 

"  But,  monsieur,  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

He  looked  over  his  shoulder  at  the  young  girl  rather 
resentfully,  though  his  doubts  as  to  her  sincerity  van- 
ished in  a  smile. 

"  It  is  the  rentree  of  the  Chambers,"  he  answered. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "is  that  it?" 

But  she  knew  no  more  now  than  she  had  known  be- 
fore. Presently  her  curiosity  again  got  the  better  of 
her  timidity. 

"  Where  are  they  going,  monsieur  ?" 


io6  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  They  don't  know,  mademoiselle.  Palais  Bourbon, 
Place  de  la  Concorde, — anywhere  it  happens  to  be 
lively  enough  to  suit.  But  where  have  you  been,  made- 
moiselle, to  not  know, — in  the  country?" 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

"  And  where  are  you  going  ?" 

"  Place  de  la  Concorde." 

"  Don't  do  it,  little  one, — don't  you  do  it !  It  is  not 
a  place  for  a  mite  like  you  on  such  a  day.  Take  my 
advice, — go  anywhere  else." 

"  I'm  going  to  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  monsieur," 
she  responded,  quite  stiffly. 

When  she  reached  the  great  plaza,  however,  she 
found  it  practically  deserted.  The  usual  throngs  of 
carriages  were  passing  to  and  fro.  Immense  black 
crowds  blocked  the  Rue  Royale  at  the  Madeleine  and 
in  the  opposite  direction  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Palais 
Bourbon  across  the  river.  These  crowds  appeared  to 
be  held  at  bay  by  the  cordons  of  police  agents,  who 
kept  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  clear  and  pedestrians 
moving  lively  in  the  intersecting  streets. 

Fouchette  hopped  nimbly  off  the  steps  of  the  omni- 
bus she  had  taken  at  le  Chatelet,  to  the  amusement  of 
a  gang  of  hilarious  students  from  the  Latin  Quarter, 
who  recognized  in  her  the  "  tenderfoot." 

The  Parisienne  always  leaves  the  omnibus  steps  with 
her  back  to  the  horses.  This  keeps  American  visitors 
standing  around  looking  for  a  mishap  which  never 
happens;  for  the  Parisienne  is  an  expert  equilibrist' 
and  can  perform  this  feat  while  the  vehicle  is  at  full 
speed,  not  only  with  safety  but  with  an  airy  grace  that 
is  often  charming. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  107 

But  Fouchette  did  not  mind  the  laughter;  she  had 
found  a  good  place  from  which  to  view  whatever  was 
to  be  seen.  She  did  not  have  to  wait  long. 

"  A  bas  le  sabre !"  shouted  a  man. 

"  A  bas  les  traitres !"  yelled  the  students  in  unison. 

One  of  the  latter  leaped  at  the  man  and  felled  him 
with  a  blow. 

The  frantic  crowd  of  young  men  attempted  to  jump 
upon  this  victim  of  public  opinion,  but  as  others  rushed 
at  the  same  time  to  his  rescue,  all  came  together  in  a 
tumultuous,  struggling  heap. 

The  angry  combatants  surged  this  way  and  that, — 
the  score  soon  became  an  hundred,  the  hundred  be- 
came a  thousand.  It  was  a  mystery  whence  these  tur- 
bulent elements  sprang,  so  quickly  did  the  mob  gather 
strength. 

The  original  offender  got  away  in  the  confusion. 
But  the  struggle  went  on,  accompanied  by  shouts, 
curses,  and  groans.  One  platoon  of  police  agents 
charged  down  upon  the  fighters,  then  another  platoon. 

Friends  struck  friends  in  sheer  excess  of  fury.  The 
momentarily  swelling  roar  of  the  combat  reverberated 
in  the  Rue  Royale  and  echoed  and  re-echoed  from  the 
garden  of  the  Tuileries. 

The  police  agents  struggled  in  vain.  They  were  un- 
able to  penetrate  beyond  the  outer  rows  of  the  mob. 
And  these  turned  and  savagely  assaulted  the  agents. 

Then  the  massive  grilles  of  the  Tuileries  swung 
upon  their  hinges  and  a  squadron  of  cuirassiers  slowly 
trotted  into  the  Place  de  la  Concorde.  They  swept 
gracefully  into  line.  A  harsh,  rasping  sound  of  steel, 
a  rattle  of  breastplates  as  the  sabres  twinkled  in  the 


io8  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

sunshine,  and  the  column  moved  down  upon  the  snarl- 
ing horde  of  human  tigers. 

Brave  when  it  was  a  single  unarmed  man,  the  mob 
broke  and  ran  like  frightened  sheep  at  the  sight  of  the 
advancing  cavalry. 

In  the  mean  time  myriads  of  omnibuses,  vans,  car- 
riages, and  vehicles  of  all  descriptions,  having  been 
blocked  by  a  similar  mob  in  the  narrow  Rue  Royale 
and  at  the  Pont  de  la  Concorde  in  the  other  direction, 
now  became  tangled  in  an  apparently  inextricable 
mass  in  the  middle  square. 

The  individual  members  of  the  crowd  broke  for  this 
cover,  while  the  agents  dashed  among  them  to  make 
arrests.  Men  scrambled  under  omnibuses  and  wagons, 
leaped  through  carriages,  dodged  between  wheels, 
climbed  over  horses,  crept  on  their  hands  and  knees 
beneath  vans. 

Fouchette  ran  like  a  rabbit,  but  between  the  rush  of 
police  and  scattering  of  the  mob  she  was  sorely  hustled. 
She  finally  sprang  into  an  open  voiture  in  the  jam,  and 
wisely  remained  there  in  spite  of  the  driver's  furious 
gesticulations. 

"  This  way !"  cried  a  stalwart  young  student  to  his 
fleeing  companions. 

The  agents  were  hot  upon  them. 

Fouchette  saw  that  they  were  covered  with  dirt, 
and  one  was  hatless.  And  this  one  glared  at  her  as  he 
dodged  beneath  the  horse. 

The  next  vehicle  was  pulled  up  short,  as  if  to  close 
the  narrow  passage,  whereat  the  hatless  man  shook  his 
fist  at  the  driver  and  cursed  him. 

"  Vive  la  liberte !"  retorted  the  driver. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  109 

"  So !  We'll  give  you  liberty,  you  cur !"  and  the 
hatless  man  called  to  his  nearest  companion,  "  Over 
with  him !" 

The  two  seized  the  light  vehicle  and  overturned  it 
as  if  it  were  an  empty  basket.  The  driver  pitched  for- 
ward, sprawling,  to  the  asphalt.  Seeing  which  the 
wary  driver  of  the  voiture  in  which  Fouchette  was 
seated  turned  and  called  to  her  behind  his  hand, — 

"  Keep  your  seat,  mademoiselle !    It's  all  right !" 

He  was  terrified  lest  his  carriage  should  follow  the 
fate  of  his  neighbor's.  But  the  young  men  merely 
compelled  him  to  whip  up  and  keep  the  lines  closed, 
and  with  this  moving  barricade  they  trotted  along 
secure  from  present  assault.  Fouchette  could  have 
touched  the  nearest  student.  She  was  so  frightened 
that  the  coachman's  admonition  was  quite  unnecessary. 
She  could  not  have  stirred. 

"  Jean !"  said  the  hatless  man  to  the  other,  who  was 
so  close,  "  you  saw  Lerouge  there  ?" 

"  See  him !    I  was  near  enough  to  punch  him !" 

"  Did  you " 

"  Ah !"    There  was  a  quaver  in  his  voice. 

"  I  understand,  my  friend." 

"  But  I  can't  understand  Lerouge,"  said  the  young 
man  called  Jean.  "  Don't  be  afraid,  mademoiselle," 
he  added,  speaking  to  Fouchette  reassuringly.  "  Our 
friends  the  agents " 

"  Oh,  there  they  come,  monsieur !"  she  cried. 

"  Pardieu !"  exclaimed  the  hatless.  "  We're  caught !" 

A  big  van  loaded  with  straw  blocked  the  way.  Be- 
hind it  skulked  a  whole  platoon  of  blue  uniforms.  The 
fugitives  hesitated  for  a  second  or  two. 


no  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  Over  with  it !"  shouted  the  hatless  young  man, 
at  the  same  moment  appropriating  a  deserted  head- 
piece. 

"  Down  with  the  agents !" 

A  dozen  stalwart  young  men  seized  the  big  wheels. 
The  top-heavy  load  wavered  an  instant,  then  went  over 
with  a  simultaneous  swish  and  a  yell. 

The  latter  came  from  the  police  agents,  now  half 
buried  in  the  straw. 

A  second  squadron  of  cavalry,  Garde  de  Paris, 
drawn  up  near  by,  witnessed  this  incident  and  smiled. 
These  little  pleasantries  amuse  all  good  Parisians. 

Safety  now  lay  in  separation.  Jean  kept  on  towards 
the  Rue  Royale;  his  friends  broke  off,  scattering  to- 
wards the  Rue  de  Rivoli. 

"  Que  diable !"  he  muttered. 

He  stopped  and  looked  hastily  about  him. 

"  Well,  devil  take  her  anyhow, — she's  gone.  And 
I'm  here." 

He  saw  himself,  with  many  others  out  of  the  line 
of  blocked  vehicles,  hemmed  in  by  agents,  Gardes 
de  Paris,  and  cuirassiers  to  the  right  and  left,  now 
driven  into  the  Rue  Royale  as  stray  animals  into  a 
pound. 

Double  lines  of  police  agents  supported  by  infantry 
and  cavalry  held  both  ends  of  this  short  street ;  here, 
where  it  opened  into  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  and 
there  where  it  led  at  the  Madeleine  into  the  grand 
boulevards. 

The  roar  of  the  mob  came  down  upon  him  from  the 
Madeleine,  where  the  rioters  had  forced  the  defensive 
line  from  time  to  time  only  to  be  driven  back  by  the 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  in 

fists  and  feet  of  the  police  agents  and  with  the  flat  of 
the  cavalry  sabre. 

The  authorities  knew  their  ground.  The  Rue  Roy- 
ale  was  the  key  to  the  military  position. 

But  in  the  attempt  to  clear  the  Place  de  la  Concorde 
the  nearest  fugitives  were  thrust  into  the  Rue  Royale 
and  driven  by  horse  and  foot  towards  the  Madeleine, 
where  they  were  mercilessly  kicked  outside  the  lines 
to  shift  for  themselves,  an  unwilling  part  of  a  frenzied 
mob. 

"  I'm  a  rat  in  a  trap  here,"  growled  the  young  man, 
having  been  literally  thrown  through  the  lower  cordon 
by  two  stalwart  agents. 

The  shopkeepers  had  put  up  their  heavy  shutters. 
The  grilles  were  closed.  People  looked  down  from 
window  and  balcony  upon  a  street  sealed  as  tight  as 
wax. 

Having  witnessed  the  infantry  reserves  ambushed 
behind  the  Ministry  of  Marine  filling  their  magazines, 
and  being  confronted  by  a  fresh  emeute  above,  Jean 
Marot  began  to  feel  queer  for  the  first  time  of  a  day 
of  brawls. 

He  recalled  the  historical  fact  that  here  in  this  nar- 
row street  a  thousand  people  were  slain  in  a  panic  on 
the  occasion  of  the  celebration  of  the  marriage  of 
Marie  Antoinette. 

A  horseman  with  drawn  sabre  rode  at  him  and  or- 
dered him  to  move  on  more  quickly. 

"  But  where  to,  Monsieur  le  Caporal  ?" 

"  Anywhere,  mon  enfant !  Out  of  this,  now !  Cir- 
culate !" 

"  But " 


ii2  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  There  is  no  '  but !'  What  business  have  you  here? 
You  are  not  a  Deputy !"  The  man  urged  him  with  his 
sabre. 

"  Hold,  Monsieur  le  Caporal !  Has,  then,  a  citizen 
of  Paris  no  longer  any  right  to  go  home  without  in- 
sult from  the  uniform  ?" 

"  Where  do  you  live,  monsieur  ?" 

"  Just  around  the  corner  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Ho- 
nore,"  replied  the  young  man. 

"  Ah !"  growled  the  cavalryman,  doubtfully,  "  and 
there  is  another  route." 

All  of  this  time  the  soldier's  horse,  trained  by  much 
service  of  this  sort  during  the  preceding  year,  was 
pushing  Jean  along  of  his  own  accord, — now  with  his 
breast,  now  with  his  impatient  nose, — to  the  consider- 
able sacrifice  of  that  young  man's  dignity.  The  latter 
edged  up  to  the  wall,  but  the  horse  followed  him, 
shoving  him  along  gently  but  firmly  under  a  loose 
rein. 

Jean  flattened  himself  against  a  doorway  to  escape 
the  pressure.  But  the  horse  paused  also  and  leaned 
against  him. 

"Oh,  say,  then!" 

"  Hello !  Here  they  come  again !"  exclaimed  the 
corporal,  reining  in  his  horse,  with  his  eyes  bent  to- 
wards the  Madeleine. 

At  this  juncture  the  door  was  suddenly  opened  and 
Jean,  who  was  fast  having  the  breath  squeezed  out  of 
him,  fell  inside. 

The  door  was  as  suddenly  closed  again  and  barred. 

The  cavalryman,  who  had  not  seen  this  movement, 
glanced  around  on  either  side,  behind,  then  beneath 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  113 

his  horse,  finally  up  in  the  sky,  and  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders and  rode  on  along  the  walk. 

"  Oho,  Monsieur  Jean !"  roared  a  friendly  voice  as 
the  young  man  caught  his  breath ;  "  trying  to  break 
into  my  house,  eh?  By  my  saint,  young  man,  you 
were  in  a  mighty  tight  place !  Oh,  this  dreadful  day ! 
No  business  at  all,  and " 

"  Business !"  gasped  Jean, — "  business,  man !  Never 
had  a  more  busy  day  in  my  life !" 

"  You  ?  Yes !  it  is  such  wild  young  blades  as  you 
and  that  serious-looking  Lerouge  who  raise  all  the  row 
in  Paris. — I  say,  monsieur,"  broke  off  the  garrulous 
old  restaurateur,  and,  running  to  the  window  behind 
the  bar,  "  they're  putting  the  sand !" 

Men  with  barrows  from  the  Ministry  of  Marine 
were  hastily  strewing  the  smooth  asphalt  with  sand. 
It  meant  cavalry  operations. 

"  But,  Monsieur  Jean,  where's  your  double  ? 
Where's  the  other  Marot  to-day?" 

Jean's  face  clouded.    He  did  not  reply. 

"  I  never  saw  two  men  look  so  much  alike,"  con- 
tinued the  restaurateur. 

"  So  the  medics  all  say,  and  that  I  do  all  the  deviltry 
and  Henri  gets  sent  to  depot  for  it."  He  had  called 
for  something  to  eat,  and  looked  up  from  the  distant 
table  in  continuation, — 

"  Lerouge  has  turned  out  to  be  the  most  rabid  Drey- 
fusarde.  We  met  in  the  fun  to-day " 

"Fun!"  * 

"  There  certainly  was  fun  for  a  while.  George  Ville- 
roy,  when  I  last  saw  him,  was  being  chased  to  the 

8 


ii4  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

Rue  de  Rivoli.  Hope  he  gets  back  this  evening  at  Le 
Petit  Rouge." 

"  Le  Petit  Rouge !  Faugh !  Nest  of  red  republi- 
cans, royalists " 

"  No  royalists " 

"  Anarchists " 


Yes,  I'll  adipit  that- 
"  And  bloody  bones- 


"  Bloody  noses  to-day,  monsieur." 

"  And  this  Lerouge  and  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  this  is  George's  night  to  carve,"  said  Jean, 
changing  the  subject  back  to  surgery. 

"Carve?" 

"  Yes, — certes !  Cut  into  something  fresh,  if  it  turns 
up." 

"Turns  up?" 

"  Why,  Monsieur  Bibbolet,  you're  as  clever  as  a 
parrot!  Yes,  turns  up.  Subject,  stiff,  cadaver, — see? 
— Le  cafe,  gargon !" 

"Ah!  you  medical " 

"  You  see,  George  has  a  new  arterial  theory  to  de- 
monstrate. I  tell  you,  he  can  pick  up  an  artery  as 
easily  as  your  cook  can  pick  a  chicken.  If  you'd  care 
to  let  him  try " 

"  How !    Pick  up  my  arteries  ?    Not  if  I " 

"What's  that?" 

They  again  ran  to  the  window. 

"  It's  the  cuirassiers,  Monsieur  Jean !  Ah !  if  it 
came  to  blows  they'd  pot  'em  like  rabbits  here !  You're 
out  of  it  just  in  time." 

So  closely  was  the  squadron  of  cuirassiers  wedged 
in  the  street  that  Jean  could  have  put  his  hand  upon 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  115 

the  jack-boots  of  the  nearest  soldier.  There  had  been 
a  fresh  break  in  the  Madeleine  guard,  and  this  was  the 
reserve.  They  slowly  pricked  their  resistless  way,  and 
one  by  one  the  exhausted  agents  slipped  between  them 
to  the  rear.  Some  of  the  latter  dragged  prisoners, 
some  supported  bruised  and  bleeding  victims.  Some 
persons  had  been  trampled  or  beaten  into  insensibility, 
and  these  were  being  carried  towards  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde.  Among  them  were  women.  There  are 
always  women  in  the  Paris  mob. 

And  this  particular  mob  was  a  mere  political  "  mani- 
festation." That  was  all.  It  was  the  25th  of  October, 
1898,  and  the  day  on  which  the  French  Parliament 
met.  So  the  Parisian  patriots  lined  the  route  to  the 
Palais  Bourbon  and  "  manifested"  their  devotion  to 
liberty  French  fashion,  by  clubbing  everybody  who 
disagreed  with  them. 

"  Well !"  said  Jean,  "  they  have  pushed  beyond  St. 
Honore.  I  can  get  home  now." 

"  Not  yet,  monsieur.  Do  not  go  yet.  It  is  still  dan- 
gerous. A  bottle  of  old  Barsac  with  me." 

******* 

Night  had  fallen.  Jean  Marot  was  cautiously  let 
out  of  a  side  door. 

The  Ministry  had  also  fallen. 

Hoarse-lunged  venders  of  the  evening  papers  an- 
nounced the  fact  in  continuous  cries.  Travel  had  been 
resumed  in  the  Rue  Royale.  Here  and  there  the  shops 
began  to  take  in  their  shutters  and  resume  business. 
Timid  shopkeepers  came  out  on  the  walk  and  discussed 
the  situation  with  each  other. 

The  ministerial  journals  sold  by  wholesale.     The 


ii6  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

angry  manifestants  burned  them  in  the  streets.  Which 
rendered  the  camelots  more  insistent  and  obnoxious 
with  fresh  bundles  to  be  sold  and  destroyed  in  the  same 
way. 

Jean  Marot,  refreshed  by  rest  and  food,  lingered  a 
moment  at  Rue  St.  Honore,  uncertain  whether  to  re- 
turn to  his  rooms  or  join  a  mob  of  patriots  howling 
the  Marseillaise  in  front  of  the  Cafe  de  Londres. 

"  Enough,"  he  finally  concluded,  and  turned  up  to- 
wards the  Rue  Boissy  d'Anglais. 

There  were  evidences  of  a  fierce  struggle  in  the 
narrow  but  aristocratic  faubourg.  Usually  a  blaze  of 
light  at  this  hour,  it  was  closed  from  street  to  street 
and  practically  deserted.  Scared  milliners  and  dress- 
makers and  fashionable  jewellers  peered  out  from 
upper  windows,  still  afraid  to  open  up.  Fragments  of 
broken  canes,  battered  hats,  and  torn  vestments  told 
an  eloquent  story  of  political  differences. 

"  We  certainly  missed  the  fun  here,"  thought  Jean. 
"Hello!  What's  this?" 

He  had  tripped  on  a  woman's  skirt  in  the  shadow  of 
the  wall. 

"  Peste !  Why  can't  our  fair  dames  and  demoiselles 
let  us  fight  it  out?  There  really  isn't  enough  to  go 
round !" 

He  paused,  then  returned  impulsively  and  looked  at 
the  dark  bundle, — stirred  it  with  his  foot.  It  was  cer- 
tainly the  figure  of  a  woman. 

"  Last  round,"  he  muttered ;   "  next,  the  Seine !" 

His  budding  professional  instincts  prompted  him  to 
search  for  the  pulse. 

It  was  still. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  117 

And  when  he  took  his  hand  away  it  was  covered  with 
blood. 

"Wait!" 

He  placed  his  hand  over  the  heart,  then  uncovered 
a  young  but  bruised  and  swollen  face. 

"  The  cavalry,"  he  murmured.  "  She's  dead ;  she — 
well,  perhaps  it  was  better." 

He  glanced  up  and  down  the  street,  as  if  considering 
whether  to  go  his  way  or  to  call  the  police.  There  was 
nobody  in  sight  near  enough  to  attract  by  cries. 
The  police  were  busy  elsewhere.  Then  his  face  all  at 
once  lighted  up. 

"  A  good  idea !"  he  ejaculated, — "  a  very  good  idea !" 

He  saw  two  cabs  approaching. 

Calling  the  first,  he  began  to  carry  the  good  idea 
into  immediate  execution. 

"What  is  it,  monsieur?"  inquired  the  cabman,  see- 
ing the  body. 

"  An  accident.    Quick,  cocher !" 

With  his  usual  decision  Jean  thrust  the  body  into 
the  cab  and  followed  it. 

"  Allez !"  he  commanded. 

"  But,  monsieur, — the — the — where  to  ?" 

"  Pont  de  Solferino,  to  Boulevard  St.  Germain.  An 
extra  franc,  my  lad !" 

Having  vaguely  started  the  cabby,  Jean  had  time  to 
think.  He  knew  the  prejudices  most  people  entertain 
concerning  the  dead.  Especially  the  prejudices  of 
Paris  police  agents  and  cabmen.  To  give  the  Rue  de 
Medecine  would  set  the  man  to  speculating.  To  men- 
tion Le  Petit  Rouge  would  be  to  have  him  hail  the 
first  man  in  uniform. 


n8  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

As  to  Jean  Marot,  medical  student,  du  Quartier 
Latin,  in  his  fourth  year,  a  lifeless  body  was  no  more 
than  a  bag  of  sand.  It  was  merely  a  "  subject." 

"  The  chief  benefit  conferred  upon  society  and  hu- 
manity by  a  large  proportion  of  our  population,"  he 
would  have  cynically  observed  to  any  caviller,  "  is  by 
dying  and  becoming  useful  '  subjects.'  " 

He  considered  himself  fortunate,  however,  in  having 
a  close  cab,  out  of  deference  to  those  who  might  differ 
with  him.  They  crossed  the  Pont  de  Solferino,  where 
a  momentary  halt  gave  a  couple  of  alert  agents  a 
chance  to  scrutinize  him  a  little  more  sharply  than  was 
comfortable,  and  turned  down  Boulevard  St.  Ger- 
main. 

At  the  ficole  de  Medecine  Jean  stopped  the  cab,  as 
if  struck  with  a  new  idea. 

"Cocher!" 

"  Yes,  monsieur  ?" 

"  Drive  to  12  Rue  Antoine  Dubois." 

"How  then!" 

"  I  said — drive — to — No.  12 — Rue  Antoine  Dubois! 
You  know  where  that  is  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  monsieur, — only — er — it  is  right  over 
there  opposite  the " 

The  man  was  so  excited  he  found  difficulty  in  ex- 
pressing himself. 

"  Ecole  Pratique, — that's  right,"  said  Jean. 

Hardened  sinner  that  he  was,  the  old  Paris  coach- 
man crossed  himself  and,  as  he  entered  the  uncanny 
neighborhood,  felt  around  for  the  sacred  amulet  that 
every  good  Frenchman  wears  next  to  the  skin. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  119 

"  I  must  get  some  instruments  there  before  taking 
this  lady  home,"  Jean  added. 

The  Rue  Antoine  Dubois  is  a  short  street  connect- 
ing the  Rue  et  Place  de  1'ficole  de  Medecine  with  the 
Rue  de  Monsieur  le  Prince.  One  side  of  it  is  formed 
by  the  gloomy  wall  of  the  ficole  Pratique,  where  more 
"  subjects"  are  disposed  of  annually  than  in  any  other 
dozen  similar  institutions  in  the  world;  the  other  by 
various  medical  shops  and  libraries,  over  which  are 
"  clubs,"  "  laboratories,"  "  cliniques,"  and  student 
lodgings.  At  the  Rue  de  Monsieur  le  Prince  the  street 
ends  in  a  great  flight  of  steps.  It  therefore  forms  an 
impasse,  or  a  pocket  for  carriages,  and  is  little  used. 
It  was  now  deserted. 

The  coachman  drew  up  before  a  dark  court  entrance, 
a  sickly  light  shining  upon  him  through  the  surgical 
appliances,  articulated  skeletons,  skulls,  and  other  pro- 
fessional exhibits  of  the  nearest  window. 

"  Let  us  see ;  I'll  take  her  up-stairs  and  make  a  more 
careful  examination." 

"You — you're  a  doctor,  monsieur?" 

"  Yes, — there !"  He  gave  the  man  a  five-franc  piece. 
"  No, — never  mind  the  change." 

"  Merci,  monsieur !" 

"  Better  wait — till  I  see  how  she  is,  you  know." 

Jean  bore  his  burden  very  carefully  till  out  of  sight ; 
then  threw  it  over  his  shoulder  and  felt  his  way  up  the 
half-lighted  stairs.  He  knew  quite  well  that  the  man 
would  not  wait ;  believed  that  the  overpayment  would 
induce  him  to  get  away  as  quickly  and  as  far  as  pos- 
sible. 


120  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  It's  a  stiff,  sure !"  growled  the  nervous  cabman, 
and  he  drove  out  of  the  place  at  a  furious  rate. 

Jean  threw  his  "  subject"  on  the  floor  and  hunted 
around  for  a  light. 

"  Le  Petit  Rouge" — its  frequenters  were  medical 
students  and  political  extremists — was  replete  with 
books,  bones,  and  anatomical  drawings,  black-and- 
white  and  in  colors.  Two  complete  skeletons  mounted 
guard, — one  in  the  farther  corner,  one  behind  the  door. 
There  were  tables  and  instrument-cases,  and  surgical 
saws  and  things  in  racks.  There  were  easy-chairs, 
pipes,  etc.  A  skull,  with  the  top  neatly  sawed  off  to 
serve  as  cover,  formed  a  tobacco  receptacle. 

But  the  chef-d'oeuvre  was  from  Jean's  ingenious 
hand.  It  was  the  bow-backed  skeleton  behind  the  door, 
which  had  been  cleverly  arranged  as  and  was  called 
"  Madame  la  Concierge."  The  skeleton  had  been  ar- 
rayed in  a  short  conventional  ballet  skirt  and  scanty 
lace  cap,  and  held  a  candle  in  one  hand  and  a  bottle 
marked  "  Absinthe"  in  the  other.  The  skirt  was  to 
indicate  her  earlier  career,  the  cap  and  candle  gave  an 
inkling  of  her  later  life,  while  the  bottle  told  the  prob- 
able cause  of  her  decease.  This  skeleton  was  so  con- 
trolled by  wires  and  cords  that  it  could  be  made  to 
move  out  in  front  of  the  open  door  and  raise  the  candle 
above  the  head,  as  if  to  see  who  asked  for  admission. 
When  the  room  was  in  semi-darkness  Madame  la  Con- 
cierge of  Le  Petit  Rouge  was  charmingly  effective, 
and  had  been  known  to  throw  some  people  into  spasms. 

Placing  his  lamp  in  a  favorable  position,  Jean  Marot 
pulled  off  his  coat,  removed  his  cuffs,  rolled  up  his 
sleeves,  and  proceeded  to  extend  his  subject  upon  what 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  121 

young  Armand  Massard  facetiously  called  "  the  dress- 
ing-table." 

"  Good  God !"  he  exclaimed,  falling  back  a  step. 
"  Why,  it's  the  demoiselle  of  the  Place  de  la  Con- 
corde!" 


CHAPTER   VI 

AND  so  it  was. 

Fouchette  had  been  thrown  from  the  voiture  in  the 
conflict,  and  had  been  run  over  by  the  mob  and  tram- 
pled into  the  mud  of  the  gutter.  So  covered  with  the 
filth  of  the  street  was  she,  so  torn  and  bruised  and 
bedraggled,  that  she  would  have  been  unrecognizable 
even  to  one  who  had  seen  her  more  often  than  had  her 
present  examiner. 

There  was  something  in  the  girl's  face,  however, 
that  had  left  an  impression  on  the  mind  of  Jean  Marot 
not  easily  effaced.  It  was  too  indistinct  and  unemo- 
tional, this  impression,  to  inspire  analysis,  but  it  was 
there,  so  that,  under  the  lamp,  Jean  had  at  once  recog- 
nized the  young  woman  of  the  carriage. 

"  It's  murder,  that's  what  it  is,"  he  soliloquized, — 
"  victim  of  *  Vive  1'armee.'  " 

A  most  careful  examination  showed  there  were  no 
bones  broken,  though  the  young  body  was  literally 
black  and  blue. 

The  face  was  that  of  a  prize-fighter's  after  a  stub- 
born battle. 

Inspection  of  the  clothing  developed  no  marks  of 
recognition.  Her  pocket  lining  showed  that  she  had 
been  robbed  of  anything  she  may  have  possessed.  The 
coarse  character  and  general  appearance  of  the  clothing 
indicated  her  lowly  condition  of  charity  scholar. 

Although  rigor  mortis  had  not  yet  set  in,  the  medical 
student,  armed  with  a  basin  and  sponge,  proceeded  to 
prepare  the  body  for  the  scalpel. 

"This  ought  to  suit  George  Villeroy,"  he  mused. 

122 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  123 

"  And  George  has  always  said  I  was  no  good  except  on 
a  lark.  He  has  always  pined  for  a  fresh  subject " 

He  was  attracted  by  the  quality  and  peculiar  color  of 
the  hair,  and  washing  the  stains  from  the  head,  ex- 
amined the  latter  attentively. 

"  I  never  saw  but  one  woman  with  hair  like  that, 
and  she — wonder  what  the  devil  is  in  Lerouge,  any- 
how ! — I  suppose — hold  on  here !  Let  us  see." 

He  had  found  a  terrible  gash  in  the  scalp.  Hastily 
obtaining  his  instruments,  he  skilfully  lifted  a  bit  of 
crushed  skull. 

As  he  did  so  he  fancied  there  was  a  slight  tremor  in 
the  slender  body.  He  nervously  tested  the  heart,  the 
nostrils,  the  pulse,  then  breathed  once  more. 

"  Dame !  It  is  imagination.  That  break  would  have 
killed  an  ox !" 

Yet  he  took  another  careful  look  at  the  wound,  cut- 
ting away  some  of  the  fair  hair  in  order  to  get  at  the 
fracture.  Then  he  made  another  experiment. 

"  Pardieu !  she's  alive,"  he  whispered,  hoarsely. 
"  What's  to  be  done  ?  They're  right.  Jean !  Jean ! 
you'll  never  be  a  doctor!  Never  be  anything  but  a 
d dfool!" 

But  Jean  Marot,  if  not  a  doctor,  was  a  young  man 
of  action  and  resources.  Even  as  he  spoke  he  grabbed 
a  sheet  and  a  blanket  from  a  cot  in  the  corner,  snatched 
a  hat  belonging  to  Massard's  grisette  from  the  wall, 
bundled  the  girl's  clothes  around  the  body  the  best  he 
could,  and  ran  to  the  window. 

As  he  had  anticipated  would  be  the  case,  the  cabman 
had  disappeared. 

He  was  fully  aware  of  the  risk  he  now  ran;    but 


124  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

above  his  sense  of  personal  danger  rose  his  sympathy 
and  anxiety  for  the  young  girl. 

He  realized  that  his  first  step  must  be  to  get  her  out 
of  this  place ;  next  to  get  her  under  the  care  of  a  regu- 
lar practitioner.  French  law  is  severe  in  such  a  con- 
tingency. Without  hesitation  he  again  shouldered  his 
burden, — this  time  with  infinite  gentleness. 

At  first  he  had  thought  of  depositing  it  in  the  court 
below  until  he  had  secured  a  cab  in  the  Rue  et  Place 
de  1'ficole  de  Medecine;  but  he  saw  an  open  voiture 
passing  along  the  elevated  horizon  of  the  Rue  de  Mon- 
sieur le  Prince  and  gave  a  shrill  whistle. 

The  cab  stopped. 

Jean  bounded  up  the  steps  as  one  endowed  with 
superhuman  strength.  Placing  his  charge  within,  he 
mounted  by  her  side. 

"  Faubourg  St.  Honore !"  he  commanded.  "  And 
good  speed  and  safe  arrival  is  worth  ten  francs  to  you, 
my  man !" 

******* 

If  Jean  had  followed  his  first  idea  and  turned  to  the 
left  instead  of  to  the  right  he  would  have  met  some  of 
his  late  revolutionary  comrades  returning,  in  boister- 
ous spirits,  to  Le  Petit  Rouge. 

"  Parbleu !"  exclaimed  Villeroy,  throwing  himself 
into  a  chair,  "  but  I  believe  every  police  agent  in  Paris 
has  trodden  on  my  corns  this  day !" 

"  For  my  part,"  said  young  Massard,  a  thin,  pale, 
indolent  young  man  scarcely  turned  twenty-one,  "  I 
don't  see  much  fun  in  being  hustled,  shoved,  kicked, 
pounded " 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  125 

"  But,  Armand,"  interrupted  the  third  man,  "  think 
of  the  fun  you  have  afforded  the  other  fellow !" 

This  speaker  was  known  as  the  double  of  Jean 
Marot,  only  some  people  could  not  see  the  slightest  re- 
semblance when  the  two  were  together, — Lerouge 
being  taller,  darker,  more  athletic  in  appearance,  and 
more  serious  of  temper. 

"  I  say,  Lerouge,  I  don't  think  your  crowd  of  Drey- 
fusardes  got  much  pleasure  out  of  us  to-day,"  put  in 
Villeroy,  dryly. 

"  We  got  some  of  it  out  of  the  police,  it  is  true,"  said 
Lerouge.  Henri  Lerouge  was  half  anarchist,  socialist, 
and  an  extremist  generally,  of  whom  French  politics 
presents  a  formidable  contingent. 

Armand  Massard  thoughtfully  helped  himself  to  a 
pipe  of  tobacco  from  the  grim  tabatiere  on  the  table. 
Politics  was  barred  at  Le  Petit  Rouge,  and  Lerouge 
was  known  to  be  rather  irritable.  On  the  subject  of 
the  police  these  young  fellows  were  unanimous.  The 
agents  were  considered  fair  game  in  the  Quartier 
Latin. 

"  I've  had  enough  of  them  for  this  once,  George," 
yawned  Massard. 

"  And  they've  had  enough  of  us  probably,"  sug- 
gested Villeroy. 

"  It  is  lively, — too  much, — this  continued  dodging 
the  police " 

"  Together  with  one's  creditors " 

A  loud  double  rap  startled  them. 

"  Mordieu !"  exclaimed  that  young  man,  leaping  to 
his  feet,  "  that's  one  now !  Don't  open !" 


126  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

Again  the  peremptory  raps,  louder  than  before. 
There  was  also  a  clank  of  steel. 

"  Police  agents  or  I'm  a  German !"  said  Villeroy. 

Henri  Lerouge,  a  contemptuous  smile  on  his  hand- 
some face,  arose  to  admit  the  callers. 

"  Wait !"  whispered  Massard, — "  one  moment !  Ma- 
dame la  Concierge  shall  receive  them." 

This  idea  tickled  the  young  men  exceedingly.  They 
had  little  to  fear  from  the  police,  unless  it  was  the 
chance  identification  on  the  Place  de  la  Concorde.  But 
these  things  are  rarely  pushed. 

Madame  la  Concierge  was  quickly  arranged,  her 
candle  lighted.  Then  the  other  light  was  turned  down. 

When  the  door  was  slowly  opened  four  police  offi- 
cers, headed  by  the  commissary  of  the  quarter,  entered. 

But  they  stopped  abruptly  on  the  threshold.  The 
hideous  skeleton  with  the  candle  confronted  them.  A 
sepulchral  voice  demanded, — 

"Who  knocks  so  loudly  at  an  honest  door?" 

It  is  no  impeachment  of  the  courage  and  efficiency 
of  the  Paris  police  to  say  that  the  men  recoiled  in 
terror  from  this  horrible  apparition.  So  suddenly,  in 
fact,  that  the  two  agents  in  the  rear  were  precipitated 
headlong  down  the  short  flight.  The  other  two  van- 
ished scarcely  less  hastily.  A  fifth  man,  who  had 
evidently  been  following  the  agents  at  a  respectful 
distance,  received  the  full  impact  of  the  falling  bodies, 
and  with  one  terrified  yell  sank  almost  senseless  on 
the  stair. 

This  man  was  the  cabman  who  had  brought  Jean 
Marot  to  Le  Petit  Rouge. 

The  veteran  commissary,  however,  flinched  only  for 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  127 

an  instant.  Having  served  many  years  in  the  Quartier 
Latin,  he  was  no  stranger  to  the  pranks  and  customs 
of  medical  students.  The  next  instant  he  had  his  foot 
in  the  doorway,  to  retain  his  advantage,  and  was  call- 
ing his  men  a  choice  assortment  of  Parisian  names. 
To  emphasize  this  he  entered  and  gave  Madame  la 
Concierge  a  kick  that  caused  her  poor  old  bones  to 
rattle. 

"  For  shame !"  cried  young  Massard,  laughingly, 
turning  up  the  light.  "  To  kick  an  old  woman !" 

"  Now  here,  gentlemen,  students, — you  are  a  nice 
lot!" 

"  Thanks !  Monsieur  le  Commissaire,"  replied  Le- 
rouge,  with  a  polite  bow. 

"  You  are  quite  aware,  gentlemen,"  continued  the 
stern  official,  "  that  you  are  responsible  at  this  moment 
for  any  injury  to  my  men  ?" 

"  No,  monsieur,"  retorted  Lerouge  in  his  dry 
fashion ;  "  but,  if  any  bones  are  broken  we'll  set  'em." 

"  Free  of  charge,"  added  Villeroy. 

"  I  want  none  of  your  impudence,  monsieur !  What's 
your  name  ?" 

"  George  Villeroy,  7  Rue  du  Pot  de  Fer,  medical 
student,  aged  twenty-four,  single,  born  at  Tours." 

Well  these  young  roysterers  knew  the  police 
formula!  Armand  Massard  gave  in  his  record  at  a 
nod.  The  veteran  commissary  wrote  the  replies  down. 

"  And  what  is  your  name,  monsieur  ?" 

"  Henri  Lerouge,  Monsieur  le  Commissaire." 

"  Ah !  I  think  we  have  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting 
before  this,"  observed  the  official.  "  A  hundred  francs 
that  this  is  our  man,"  he  added  under  his  breath. 


128  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

Then,  turning  to  his  men,  who  had  stolen  in,  shame- 
faced, one  by  one, — 

"Dubat!" 

"  Yes,  monsieur."  A  keen-eyed  agent  stepped  for- 
ward and  saluted  military  fashion. 

"  Do  you  recognize  one  of  these  gentlemen  as  the 
man  who  crossed  the  Pont  de  Solferino  this  evening 
with  something " 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  le  Commissaire,"  —  pointing 
promptly  to  Henri  Lerouge, — "  that's  the  man !" 

"  So.  You  may  step  aside,  Dubat.  Now  where  is 
that— oh!  Monsieur  Perriot?" 

"  Monsieur  le  Commissaire,"  responded  the  un- 
happy cabman,  who  had  scarcely  recovered  from  his 
mishap  in  the  stairway.  He  limped  painfully  to  the 
front. 

"  Now,  Perriot,  do  you ' 

"  There  he  is,  Monsieur  le  Commissaire,"  antici- 
pated the  cabman.  "  I'd  know  him  among  a  thou- 
sand." 

"  Ah !  And  there  we  are.  I  thought  so !"  said  the 
police  official.  "  Now,  Monsieur  Lerouge,"  facing  the 
latter  with  a  catlike  eye,  "  where's  the  body  ?" 

The  young  man  looked  puzzled,  very  naturally, 
while  his  companions  were  speechless  with  astonish- 
ment. 

The  veteran  police  officer  took  in  every  detail  of 
this  and  mentally  admitted  that  it  was  clever,  deucedly 
clever,  acting. 

"  I  say,  where  is  the  body?"  he  repeated. 

"  And  I  say,"  retorted  Lerouge,  with  a  calmness  of 
tone  and  steadiness  of  eye  that  almost  staggered  the 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  129 

old  criminal  catcher,  "  that  I  do  not  understand  you, 
and  am  very  patiently  awaiting  your  explanation." 

"  Search  the  place !"  curtly  commanded  the  officer. 

A  clamorous  protest  arose  from  all  three  of  the 
students.  But  the  commissary  of  police  waved  them 
aside. 

"  It  means  that  this  man,  Henri  Lerouge,  between 
six  and  seven  o'clock  this  evening,  carried  a  dead  body 
from  the  Rue  St.  Honore " 

"  Faubourg  St.  Honore,  Monsieur  le  Commissaire," 
interrupted  the  cabman,  feebly. 

" Faubourg  St.  Honore,  crossed  the  Pont  de 

Sol  ferine,  where  he  was  seen  by  Agent  Dubat,  and 
was  brought  here  in  a  voiture  of  place,  No.  37,420, 
driven  by  Jacques  Perriot.  That,  arriving  in  front  of 
this  building,  the  said  Lerouge  paid  the  cabman  and 
dismissed " 

"  Pardon,  Monsieur  le  Commissaire,"  again  put  in 
the  coachman, — who  was  evidently  trying  to  do  his 
duty  under  unfavorable  circumstances, — "  pardon, 
monsieur,  but  he  told  me  to  wait." 

"  Oh,  he  told  you  to  wait,  did  he  ?  And  why  didn't 
you  say  that  at  the  Commissariat,  you  stupid  brute?" 
The  officer  was  furious.  "  But  he  paid  you,  then?" 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

"  He  paid  you  five  francs  and  expected  you  to  wait !" 
sarcastically. 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

"Why?" 

"  He  said  he  might  want  me,  monsieur." 

"  Might  want  you.  And  why  didn't  you  wait,  you 
old  fool?" 

9 


130  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"Here?  In  the  Rue  Antoine  Duhois,  after  dark, 
monsieur  ?  And  for  a — a — '  stiff'  ?  Not  for  a  hundred 
francs !" 

The  students  roared  with  laughter.  As  the  agents 
had  returned  a  report  meanwhile  to  the  effect  that 
there  were  no  sign^  of  any  "  subject"  immediately  in 
hand,  the  commissary  was  deeply  chagrined. 

"  Now,  gentlemen,"  he  began,  in  a  fatherly  tone,  "  it 
is  evident  that  a  body  has  been  taken  from  the  street 
and  brought  here  instead  of  being  turned  over  to  the 
police  for  the  morgue  and  usual  forms  of  identification. 
That  body  is  possibly  unimportant  in  itself,  and  would 
probably  fall  to  your  admirable  institution  eventually. 
But  the  law  prescribes  the  proper  course  in  such  cases. 
We  have  traced  that  body  to  this  place  and  to  one  of 
your  number.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  find  fault  with  the 
desire  of  young  gentlemen  seeking  to  perfect  their 
knowledge  of  anatomy  for  the  benefit  of  humanity; 
but  we  must  know  where  that  body  went  from  here." 

The  last  very  emphatically,  with  a  stern  gaze  at 
Henri  Lerouge. 

"And  on  our  part,"  answered  the  latter,  with  ill- 
subdued  passion,  "  we  say  there  is  no  body  here,  that 
none  has  been  brought  here  to-night,  that  we  have  been 
together  all  day,  and  that  we  had  but  just  arrived  here 
before  this  unwarrantable  intrusion;  in  short,  that 
your  petits  mouchards  there  have  lied !" 

It  was  impossible  not  to  believe  him.  Yet  the  evi- 
dence of  the  cabman,  corroborated  circumstantially  in 
part  by  Agent  Dubat,  seemed  equally  positive  and  irre- 
sistible. 

The  commissary  was  nonplussed  for  a  minute.    He 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  131 

looked  sternly  at  Monsieur  Perriot.  The  latter  was 
nervously  fumbling  his  glazed  hat.  Somebody  had, 
lied.  The  commissary  decided  that  it  was  the  unlucky 
cabman. 

"  Monsieur  Perriot  ?" 

"  Y-yes,  Monsieur  le  Commissaire." 

"  Have  you  got  a  five-franc  piece  about  you  ?" 

"  Y— n— no— er " 

"  Let  me  see  it." 

Now,  the  poor  cabman  had  lost  no  time  fortifying 
himself  with  an  absinthe  or  two  upon  leaving  his  fare 
in  the  terrible  Rue  Antoine  Dubois.  He  had  changed 
the  piece  given  him  by  Jean  Marot. 

"  I  haven't  got— 

"  You  said  this  man  gave  you  a  five-franc  piece, 
didn't  you?  Now,  did  you,  or  did  you  not?  An- 
swer !" 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  le " 

"  Where  is  it  ?  You  said  you  came  straight  to  the 
Commissariat, — you  haven't  had  time  to  get  drunk. 
Show  me  the  piece !  Come !" 

"  I  drove  to— I " 

"Come!    Out  with  it!" 

"  But,  Monsieur  le  Commissaire " 

"  You  haven't  got  a  five-franc  piece.  Come,  now ; 
say!" 

"  No,  monsieur.    I " 

"  Lie  No.  2." 

"  But,  monsieur,  I  stopped  at  the  wine-shop  of " 

"  Then  you  didn't  drive  straight  to  the  Commis- 
sariat ?" 

«  I  went " 


132  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  Did  you,  or  did  you  not?    Yes  or  no!" 

"  No,  monsieur." 

"So!    Lie  No.  3." 

The  commissary  got  up  full  of  wrath,  and  grasping 
the  unfortunate  cabby  by  the  shoulder,  spun  him 
around  with  such  force  as  to  make  the  man's  head 
swim. 

"Dubat!" 

"Monsieur?" 

"  Take  this  idiot  to  the  post.  I'll  enter  a  complaint 
against  him  before  the  Correctionnelle  in  the  morning. 
He  shall  forfeit  his  license  for  this  amusement.  Gen- 
tlemen, pardon  me  for  this  unnecessary  intrusion. 
Either  this  fool  Perriot  has  lied  or  has  led  us  to  the 
wrong  number.  I'll  give  him  time  to  decide  which. 
Aliens !" 

Led  by  the  irate  official  the  squad  departed,  Mon- 
sieur Perriot  being  hustled  unceremoniously  between 
two  agents. 

The  young  men  left  behind  looked  at  each  other  for 
a  minute  without  speaking,  then  broke  into  a  chorus 
of  laughter. 

It  was  such  a  good  one  on  the  police. 

"  Ah !"  exclaimed  Villeroy,  "  if  we  only  had  that  stiff 
here  for  a  fact !" 

"  This  joke  on  the  agents  must  be  got  into  the  news- 
papers," said  Lerouge.  "  It's  too  good  to  keep  all  to 
ourselves." 

"  Fact !"  cried  Massard,  who  had  thrown  himself  on 
the  cot. 

"  The  joke  is  on  Monsieur  Perriot,  I  think,"  ob- 
served Villeroy. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  133 

"  Whoever  it  is  on,"  put  in  young  Massard,  "  it  is  a 
better  joke  than  you  fellows  imagine."  And  Massard 
went  off  into  a  paroxysm  of  laughter  by  himself. 

"Que  diable?" 

"  Oh !  oh !  oh !"  roared  Massard. 

He  had  discovered  the  missing  sheet  and  blanket 
and  the  grisette's  hat.  His  companions  regarded  him 
attentively.  But  the  young  man  merely  went  into 
fresh  convulsions  of  merriment. 

Lerouge  suddenly  raised  his  hand  for  silence. 
There  was  a  low,  half-timid  rap  at  the  door.  It 
created  the  impression  of  some  woman  of  the  street. 

"  Come  in  !"  cried  Villeroy. 

"  Let  her  in,"  said  Lerouge. 

By  which  time  the  door  had  been  opened  and  a  tall, 
thin  gentleman  entered  and  immediately  closed  the 
door  behind  him. 

"  In-Inspector  Loup !"  ejaculated  Lerouge. 

"  What !  more  police  ?"  inquired  Villeroy,  sarcasti- 
cally. "  We  are  too  much  honored  .to-night." 

"  Excuse  me,  young  gentlemen,"  observed  the  offi- 
cial, somewhat  stiffly,  but  with  a  polite  inclination  of 
his  lank  body,  "  but  I  must  be  permitted  to  make  an 
examination  here — yes,  I  know ;  but  Monsieur  le  Com- 
missaire  is  rather — rather — you  know — they  will  wait 
until  I  see  for  myself  where  the  error  is.  Yes,  error, 
I'm  sure." 

During  this  introduction  the  keen  little  fishy  eyes 
searched  the  table,  the  floor,  the  walls,  the  cot  in  the 
corner  whereon  Massard  now  sat  seriously  erect,  and, 
incidentally,  every  person  in  the  room.  They  wound 
up  this  lightning  tour  of  inspection  by  resting  with  the 


134  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

last  equivocal  sentence  upon  some  object  on  the  floor 
under  the  table. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  added,  stepping  briskly  forward 
and  grasping  the  lamp. 

He  brought  the  light  to  bear  upon  the  object  which 
had  appeared  to  fascinate  him,  the  wondering  eyes 
of  the  three  students  becoming  riveted  to  the  same 
spot. 

It  was  a  wisp  of  light  flaxen  hair  just  tinted  with 
gold. 

The  inspector  replaced  the  lamp  upon  the  dissecting- 
table  and  examined  the  lock  of  hair.  It  was  still  moist, 
and  there  were  distinct  traces  of  blood  where  it  had 
been  cut  off  from  the  head. 

"Ah!" 

The  world  of  satisfaction  in  that  ejaculation  was 
not  communicated  to  the  students,  who  were  speechless 
with  astonishment. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  inspector,  as  if  he  were  continuing 
an  unimportant  conversation,  "  Monsieur  le  Commis- 
saire  is  rather — rather— show  me  the  rest  of  the  place, 
please,"  and  without  waiting  for  formal  permission 
proceeded,  lamp  in  hand,  on  his  own  account. 

"  So !    One  sleeps  here  ?" 

"  Occasionally,  monsieur." 

He  looked  under  the  cot. 

"  Then  you  must  have  the  rest  of  the  bed ;  where 
is  it?" 

His  quick  eye  had  discovered  the  inconsistency  of 
the  mattress, — as,  indeed,  Massard  himself  had  al- 
ready done, — and  his  fertile  brain  jumped  at  once  from 
cause  to  effect. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  135 

"  Probably  to  wrap  the  body  in.    Where's  the  sink  ?" 

In  the  little  antechamber,  redolent  with  the  peculiar 
and  indescribable  odor  of  human  flesh  and  its  preserva- 
tives, was  a  long  ice-chest,  a  big  iron  sink,  an  old- 
fashioned  range,  pots,  pans,  shelves  with  bottles,  etc. 

Massard  hurriedly  opened  the  chest,  as  if  half  ex- 
pecting to  see  a  human  body  there. 

But  Inspector  Loup  scarcely  glanced  at  this  recep- 
tacle for  "  subjects."  His  eyes  sought  and  found  the 
metal  basin  such  as  doctors  use  during  operations. 

The  basin  was  still  wet,  and  minute  spots  of  red  ap- 
peared upon  its  rim.  A  sponge  lay  near.  It  had  re- 
cently been  soaked.  The  inspector  squeezed  the  sponge 
over  the  basin  and  obtained  water  stained  with  red. 

"  Blood,"  said  he. 

"  Blood !"  echoed  the  alarmed  students. 

"  She's  alive,"  said  the  inspector,  more  to  himself 
than  to  his  dumfounded  auditors, — "  alive,  probably, 
else  whoever  brought  her  here  would  have  kept  her 
here." 

He  returned  abruptly  to  the  other  room,  and  de- 
positing the  lamp,  turned  to  Lerouge, — 

"  Were  you  expecting  anybody  else  here  to-night, 
monsieur  ?" 

"  Why,  yes ;  Jean  Marot " 

The  possibility  flashed  upon  the  three  young  men 
at  once,  but  it  seemed  too  preposterous.  The  inspec- 
tor had  turned  to  the  window  and  blown  a  shrill 
whistle. 

"  Pardon  me,  young  gentlemen,  but  I'll  not  disturb 
you  any  longer  than  I  can  help.  What  is  Jean  Marot's 
address?  Good!  I  will  leave  you  company.  You 


136  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

will  not  mind?    Dubat  will  entertain  you.     It  is  bet- 
ter than  resting  in  the  station-house,  eh  ?" 

With  this  pleasantry  Inspector  Loup  hurried  away, 
snatched  a  cab,  and  was  driven  rapidly  to  the  address 
in  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore. 

******* 

Jean  Marot  was  the  son  of  a  rich  silk  manufacturer 
of  Lyon,  and  therefore  lived  in  more  comfortable  quar- 
ters than  most  students,  in  a  fashionable  neighborhood 
on  the  right  bank  of  the  Seine.  He  had  reached  his  • 
lodgings  scarcely  three-quarters  of  an  hour  before  In- 
spector Loup.  But  in  that  time  he  had  stampeded  the 
venerable  concierge,  got  his  still  unconscious  burden 
to  bed  and  fetched  a  surgeon.  The  concierge  had  pro- 
tested against  turning  the  house  into  a  hospital  for 
vagrant  women ;  but  Jean  was  of  an  impetuous  nature, 
and  wilful  besides,  and  when  he  was  told  that  the  last 
vacant  chamber  had  been  taken  that  day,  he  boldly 
carried  the  girl  to  his  own  rooms  and  placed  her  in  his 
own  bed.  And  when  the  concierge  had  reported  this 
fact  to  Madame  Goutran,  that  excellent  lady,  who  had 
officiated  as  Jean's  landlady  for  the  past  four  years, 
shrugged  her  shoulders  in  such  an  equivocal  way  that 
the  concierge  concluded  that  her  best  interests  lay  in 
assisting  the  young  man  as  much  as  possible. 

Dr.  Cardiac  was  not  only  one  of  the  best  surgeon- 
professors  of  the  ficole  de  Medecine  but  Jean's  father's 
personal  friend.  The  young  man  felt  that  he  could 
turn  to  the  great  surgeon  in  this  emergency,  though 
the  latter  was  an  expert  not  in  regular  practice. 

The  appearance  of  Inspector  Loup  threw  the  Gou- 
tran establishment  into  a  fever  of  excitement.  The 


m 

/ 


. 

HIS   STILL   UNCONSCIOUS   BURDEN 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  137 

wrinkled  old  concierge  who  had  declined  to  admit  the 
stranger  was  ready  to  fall  upon  her  knees  before  the 
director  of  the  Secret  Service.  Madame  Goutran 
hastened  to  explain  why  she  had  not  reported  the 
affair  to  the  police  department  as  the  law  required. 
She  had  not  had  time.  It  was  so  short  a  time  ago  that 
the  case  had  been  brought  into  her  house, — in  a  few 
minutes  she  would  have  sent  in  the  facts, — then,  they 
expected  every  moment  to  ascertain  the  name  of  the 
young  woman,  which  would  be  necessary  to  make  the 
report  complete. 

Madame  Goutran  hoped  that  it  would  not  involve 
her  lodger,  Monsieur  Jean  Marot,  who  was  an  excel- 
lent young  man,  though  impulsive.  He  should  have 
had  the  girl  sent  to  the  hospital.  It  was  so  absurd  to 
bring  her  there,  where  she  might  die,  and  in  any  case 
would  involve  everybody  in  no  end  of  difficulties,  any- 
how. 

To  a  flood  of  such  excuses  and  running  observations 
Inspector  Loup  listened  with  immobile  face,  tightly 
closed  lips,  and  wandering  fishy  eyes,  standing  in  the 
corridor  of  the  concierge  lodge.  He  had  not  uttered  a 
word,  nor  had  he  hurried  the  good  landlady  in  her 
explanations  and  excuses.  It  was  Inspector  Loup's 
custom.  He  assumed  the  attitude  of  a  professional 
listener.  Seldom  any  one  had  ever  resisted  the  subtle 
power  of  that  silent  interrogation.  Even  the  most 
stubborn  and  recalcitrant  were  compelled  to  yield  after 
a  time ;  and  those  who  had  sullenly  withstood  the  most 
searching  and  brutal  interrogatories  had  broken  down 
under  the  calm,  patient,  philosophical,  crushing  con- 
templation. Questions  too  .often  merely  serve  to  put 


138  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

people  on  their  guard, — to  furnish  a  cue  to  what  should 
be  withheld. 

"  And  your  lodger,  madame  ?"  he  inquired,  after 
Madame  Goutran  had  run  down,  "  can  I  see  him  ?" 

"  Certainly,  Monsieur  1'Inspecteur.  Pardon !  I 
have  detained  you  too  long." 

"  Not  at  all,  madame.  One  does  not  think  of  time 
in  the  presence  of  a  charming  conversationalist." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  monsieur !  This  way,  Monsieur 
1'Inspecteur." 

Inspector  Loup  gained  the  apartment  of  Jean  Marot 
shortly  after  the  united  efforts  of  Dr.  Cardiac  and  his 
amateur  assistants  had  succeeded  in  producing  de- 
cided signs  of  returning  consciousness.  The  patient 
was  breathing  irregularly. 

The  police  official  entered  the  chamber,  and,  after  a 
silent  recognition  of  those  present,  looked  long  and 
steadily  at  the  slight  figure  on  the  bed. 

He  then  retired,  beckoning  Jean  to  follow  him. 
Once  in  the  petit  salon,  the  inspector  motioned  the 
young  man  to  a  chair  and  looked  him  over  for  about 
half  a  minute.  Whereupon  Jean  made  a  clean  breast 
of  what  his  listener  practically  already  knew,  and  what 
he  did  not  know  had  guessed. 

"  Bring  me  her  clothing,"  said  the  inspector,  when 
Jean  had  finished. 

The  young  man  brought  the  torn  and  soiled  gar- 
ments which  had  been  removed  from  the  girl. 

Inspector  Loup  examined  them  in  a  perfunctory 
way,  but  apparently  discovered  nothing  beyond  the 
fact  that  they  were  typical  charity  clothes,  which  Jean 
had  already  decided  for  himself. 

"  Be  good  enough  to  ask  Monsieur  le  Docteur  to 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  139 

step  in  here  a  few  moments  at  his  leisure,"  he  finally 
said. 

As  soon  as  Jean  had  his  back  turned  the  inspector 
whipped  out  a  knife,  slit  the  lining  of  the  bosom  of  the 
little  dress,  and  taking  therefrom  the  letter  addressed 
to  himself,  noted  at  a  glance  that  the  seal  was  intact, 
tore  it  open,  saw  its  contents  and  as  quickly  transferred 
the  missive  to  his  pocket. 

"  Well,  doctor,"  he  gravely  inquired,  "  how  about 
your  young  patient?" 

"  Uncertain,  monsieur,  but  hopeful." 

"  She  will  recover,  then  ?" 

"  I  think  so,  but  it  will  be  some  time.  She  must  be 
removed  to  a  hospital." 

"  Yes,  of  course, — of  course.  But  you  will  report  to 
me  where  she  is  taken  from  here,  Monsieur  le  Doc- 
teur?" 

"  Oh,  yes, — certainly.  Though  perhaps  the  girl's 
friends " 

"  She  has  no  friends,"  said  the  inspector. 

"  What !    You  know  her,  then  ?" 

"  It  is  Mademoiselle  Fouchette." 

"  A  nobody's  child,  eh  ?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"  Mademoiselle  Fouchette  is  the  child  of  the  police," 
said  Inspector  Loup. 

He  slowly  retired  down-stairs,  through  the  court  and 
passage-way,  reaching  the  street.  Then  as  he  walked 
away  he  drew  from  his  pocket  the  letter  he  had  ex- 
tracted from  the  little  dress. 

"  So !  Sister  Agnes  is  prompt  and  to  the  point. 
These  Jesuitical  associations  are  hotbeds  of  treason 
and  intrigue!  They  are  inconsistent  with  civil  and 
religious  liberty.  We'll  see !" 


CHAPTER   VII 

WHEN  Fouchette  opened  her  eyes  it  was  to  see 
three  strange  faces  at  her  bedside, — the  faces  of  Dr. 
Cardiac,  Jean  Marot,  and  a  professional  nurse. 

But  she  had  regained  consciousness  long  before  she 
could  see,  her  eyes  being  in  bandages,  and  had  pas- 
sively listened  to  the  soft  goings  and  comings  and  low 
conversations  and  whispered  directions,  without  say- 
ing anything  herself  or  betraying  her  growing  curi- 
osity. 

These  sounds  came  to  her  vaguely  and  brokenly  at 
first,  then  forced  themselves  on  her  attention  con- 
nectedly. Surely  she  was  not  at  Le  Bon  Pasteur! 
Then  where  was  she?  And  finally  the  recollection  of 
recent  events  rushed  upon  her,  and  her  poor  little  head 
seemed  to  be  on  the  point  of  bursting. 

Things  finally  appeared  quite  clear,  until  her  eyes 
were  free  and  she  saw  for  the  first  time  her  new  sur- 
roundings, when  she  involuntarily  manifested  her  sur- 
prise. 

It  certainly  was  not  a  hospital,  as  she  had  imagined 
the  place.  The  sunny  chamber,  with  its  tastefully 
decorated  walls  hung  with  pictures,  the  foils  over  the 
door, — through  which  she  saw  a  still  more  lovely  room, 
— the  voluptuous  divan  and  its  soft  cushions,  the  heavy 
Turkish  rugs,  the  rich  damask  hangings  of  her  bed, — 
no ;  it  certainly  was  not  a  hospital. 

It  was  the  most  beautiful  room  Fouchette  had  ever 
seen, — such  as  her  fancy  had  allotted  to  royal  blood, — 
at  least  to  the  nobility.  To  awaken  in  such  a  place  was 
-  140 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  141 

like  the  fairy  tales  Sister  Agnes  had  read  to  her  long 
ago. 

"  Well,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  old  surgeon,  cheerily, 
"  we're  getting  along, — getting  along,  eh,  Monsieur 
Marot?" 

"  Admirably !"  said  Jean. 

Fouchette  glanced  from  one  to  the  other.  The  doc- 
tor she  had  long  recognized  by  voice  and  touch;  but 
this  young  man,  was  he  the  prince  of  this  palace? 

The  eyes  of  the  pair  rested  upon  each  other  for  the 
moment  inquiringly. 

Both  Fouchette  and  Jean  concluded  this  examina- 
tion with  a  sigh. 

Fouchette  had  recognized  in  him  the  young  man  who 
marched  by  her  side  in  the  Place  de  la  Concorde, — only 
a  rioter.  He  could  not  live  here. 

Jean  Marot,  who  thought  he  had  seen  something  in 
this  girl  besides  her  hair  to  remind  him  of  the  woman 
he  loved,  acknowledged  himself  in  error.  It  had  been 
a  mere  fancy, — he  dismissed  it. 

He  turned  away  and  stood  looking  gloomily  into  the 
street.  But  the  young  man  saw  nothing.  He  was 
thinking  of  the  unfortunate  turn  of  political  events  in 
France  that  had  arrayed  friend  against  friend,  brother 
against  brother. 

It  was  social  revolution — anarchy ! 

Now  his  friend  Lerouge  and  he  had  quarrelled, — 
exchanged  blows.  They  had  wrangled  before,  but 
within  the  bounds  of  student  friendship.  Blows  had 
now  changed  this  friendship  to  hatred.  Blows  from 
those  whom  we  love  are  hardest  to  forgive, — they  are 
never  forgotten. 


142  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

Yet  it  was  not  this  friendship  in  itself  that  particu- 
larly concerned  Jean  Marot.  Through  it  he  had  cal- 
culated on  reaching  something  more  vital  to  his  happi- 
ness. 

Henri  Lerouge  had  introduced  him  to  Mile.  Remy. 
It  was  in  the  Jardin  du  Luxembourg.  They  had 
met  but  for  a  brief  minute.  The  presentation  had 
been  coldly  formal, — reluctant.  Yet  in  that  time,  in 
the  midst  of  the  usual  conventionalities,  Jean  had 
looked  into  a  pair  of  soulful  blue  eyes  that  had  smiled 
upon  him,  and  Jean  was  lost. 

His  hope  of  meeting  her  again  lay  in  and  through 
Lerouge, — and  now  they  had  quarrelled ;  and  about  a 
Jew! 

The  fine  blonde  hair  and  slender  figure  of  this  girl — 
this  "  child  of  the  police" — had  reminded  Jean  of 
Mile.  Remy.  She  possessed  the  same  kind  of  hair. 
It  was  this  mental  association  that  prompted  him 
to  carry  the  unknown  to  his  own  lodgings  as  described. 
This  impulse  of  compassion  and  association  was 
strengthened  by  his  narrow  escape  from  being  her 
slayer.  In  fact,  it  was  the  best  thing  to  have  done 
under  all  the  circumstances. 

Now  that  the  causes  and  the  impulse  had  dis- 
appeared together,  he  began  to  feel  bored.  The 
"  child  of  the  police"  was  in  his  way, — the  police 
might  look  after  her.  Jean  Marot  had  troubles  of 
his  own. 

As  for  Fouchette,  she  silently  regarded  the  motion- 
less figure  at  the  window,  wondering,  thinking,  on  her 
part,  of  many  things.  When  it  had  disappeared  in  the 
adjoining  room  she  beckoned  to  the  doctor. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  143 

"The  young  man,  Monsieur  Marot?"  she  asked, 
feebly.  "  Is  this  his " 

"  It  is  his  apartment,  mademoiselle,"  the  doctor  an- 
ticipated. 

«  Tell  me " 

"  Monsieur  Marot  found  you  in  the  street  near  by, 
after  the  riot  of  the  25th  of  October,  and  brought  you 
here, — temporarily,  you  know." 

"  Monsieur  Marot  is  very  good,"  she  murmured. 

"  Excellent  young  man !"  said  the  doctor.  "  A  trifle 
obstinate,  but  still  a  very  excellent  young  man,  made- 
moiselle." 

The  girl  was  silent  for  a  minute,  as  if  lost  in 
thought. 

"  Is  this  his — his  bedchamber,  doctor  ?" 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle." 

"  I  must  be  moved,"  she  said,  promptly.  "  You  un- 
derstand? I  must  be  removed  at  once.  Take  me  to  a 
hospital,  please!" 

"  Oh,  don't  excite  yourself  about  it,  my  child.  Soon 
enough — when  you  are  able." 

"  What  day  of  the  month  is " 

"  This  ?    The  5th  of  November." 

"  Ten  days !    Ten  days !" 

"  Yes, — you  have  had  a  narrow  call,  mademoiselle." 

"  And  I  owe  my  life  to  you,  doctor." 

"  To  Monsieur  Marot,  mademoiselle." 

"Ah!  but  you— 

"  If  it  hadn't  been  for  him  I  would  never  have  seen 
you,  child." 

He  spoke  very  gently  and  in  a  subdued  voice  that 
reached  only  her  ear.  Another  pause. 


144  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

'.'  It  is  all  the  more  important  that  I  should  not 
trouble  him, — disturb  him  any  longer  than  necessary. 
You  understand  ?" 

"  Very  truly,  mademoiselle,"  replied  he ;  "  very 
thoughtful  of  you, — very  womanly.  It  does  you  credit, 
Mademoiselle  Fouchette." 

"  What  ?    You,  then,  know  my  name  ?" 

"  Certainly."  The  doctor  observed  her  surprise  with 
a  genial  smile. 

"  I  am  very  grateful," — that  they  should  know  her 
for  what  she  was  and  yet  have  been  so  good  to  her 
moved  her  deeply, — "  I  am  very  grateful,  monsieur. 
But  how  did  you  know  it  was  me,  Fouchette  ?" 

"  Well,  there  is  one  man  in  Paris  who  knows 
you " 

"  Inspector  Loup  ?"  she  asked,  quickly. 

"  Inspector  Loup,"  said  he. 

"  And  he  knows  where  I  am, — certainly,  for  he 
knows  everything, — everything !" 

"  Not  quite,  possibly,  but  enough." 

"  I  must  see  Inspector  Loup,  doctor ;  yes,  I  must 
see  him  at  once.  When  was  he  here?" 

"  Within  the  hour  in  which  you  were  brought,"  said 
the  doctor. 

He  was  not  disposed  to  be  communicative  on  the 
subject  of  the  Secret  Service,  or  about  its  director, 
having  a  healthy  contempt  for  the  system  of  official 
espionage  deemed  necessary  to  any  sort  of  French 
government,  Royalist,  Napoleonic,  or  Republican. 
And  he  wondered  what  mysterious  band  could  unite 
the  interests  of  this  charity  child  with  the  interests  of 
the  government  of  France. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  145 

"  Where  are  my  clothes,  doctor  ?"  she  suddenly  in- 
quired, half  raising  herself  on  her  elbow. 

"  Oh !  la,  la !  Why,  you  can't  go  now !  It  is  im- 
possible! The  inspector  can  come  and  see  you  here, 
can't  he?" 

"  But  where  are  my  clothes  ?    Are  they " 

"  They're  here,  all  right." 

"  Let  me  see  them,  please." 

"  Very  good ;  but  don't  get  excited, — nobody  will 
run  away  with  them ;  bless  my  soul !  Nobody  has  had 
them  except — except  the  nurse  and  Inspector  Loup." 

"He?" 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle, — for  identification." 

"Oh!" 

Fouchette  was  nervous.  She  had  been  reminded  of 
the  letter  by  the  first  mention  of  the  inspector's  name. 
Had  anybody  found  the  letter?  Was  it  there  still? 
Supposing  it  had  been  lost!  What  was  this  letter, 
anyhow?  It  must  be  very  important,  or  the  senders 
would  have  mailed  it  in  the  regular  way.  She  felt 
that  she  dared  not  betray  its  presence  by  pushing  the 
demand  for  her  clothing. 

"  It  is  very  curious,  too,"  added  the  doctor,  "  how 
that  man  could  identify  you  by  means  of  clothing  he 
had  never  before  seen.  He  probably  had  information 
from  where  you  came,  with  your  description." 

"  Y-yes,  monsieur, — I " 

Fouchette  had  never  thought  of  that.  It  did  not 
comfort  her,  as  may  well  be  imagined. 

"  I'll  speak  to  the  nurse  about  the  clothes " 

"  Pardon !  but  it  is  unnecessary,  doctor.  I  only 
wanted  to  know  if  they  were — were  safe,  you  know. 

10 


146  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

No;  never  mind.  I  thank  you  very  much.  I  shall 
need  them  only  when  I  am  removed,  which  I  hope 
will  be  soon." 

******* 

In  the  Rue  St.  Jacques  stands  an  old  weather-stained, 
irregular  pile  of  stone,  inconspicuous  in  a  narrow, 
crooked  street  lined  with  similar  houses.  The  grim 
walls  retreat  from  the  first  floor  to  the  roof,  in  the 
monolithic  style  of  the  Egyptian  tomb.  Beneath  the 
first  floor  is  the  usual  shop, — a  rotisserie  patronized 
by  the  scholars  of  two  centuries, — famed  of  Balzac, 
de  Musset,  Dumas,  Hugo,  and  a  myriad  lesser  pens. 

The  other  houses  of  the  neighborhood  are  equally 
oblivious  to  modern  opinion.  They  consent  to  lean 
against  each  other  while  jointly  turning  an  indifferent 
face  to  the  world,  like  a  man  about  whose  ugliness 
there  is  no  dispute.  No  two  run  consecutively  with 
the  walks,  and  all  together  present  a  sky-line  that 
paralyzes  calculation. 

The  historic  street  at  this  point  is  a  lively  market 
during  the  business  day.  Its  sidewalks  being  only 
wide  enough  for  the  dogs  to  sun  themselves  without 
danger  from  passing  vehicles,  it  is  necessary  for  the 
passers  to  take  that  risk  by  walking  in  the  roadway. 
Those  who  do  not  care  to  assume  any  risks  go  around 
by  way  of  Rue  Gay-Lussac, — especially  after  mid- 
night, when  the  street  enjoys  its  personal  reputation. 
The  Pantheon  is  just  around  the  corner,  and  the  an- 
cient Sorbonne,  Louis  le  Grand,  and  the  College  of 
France  line  the  same  street  on  the  next  block,  and 
have  stood  there  for  some  hundreds  of  years;  but, 
all  the  same,  timid  people  certainly  prefer  to  reach 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  147 

them  by  a  roundabout  way  rather  than  by  this  section 
of  Rue  St.  Jacques. 

Mile.  Fouchette  had  accepted  a  home  in  the  Rue 
St.  Jacques  and  in  this  particular  building  because 
other  people  did  not  wish  to  live  there,  which  made 
rooms  cheap. 

If  you  had  cared  to  see  what  Mile.  Fouchette  proudly 
called  "  home"  you  might  have  raised  and  let  fall 
an  old-fashioned  iron  knocker  that  sent  a  long  rever- 
berating roar  down  the  tunnel-like  entrance,  to  be 
lost  in  some  hidden  court  beyond.  Then  a  slide  would 
slyly  uncover  a  little  brass  "  judas,"  disclosing  a  little, 
black,  hard  eye.  Assuming  that  this  eye  was  satisfied 
with  you,  the  slide  would  be  closed  with  a  snap,  bolts 
unshot,  bars  swung  clear,  and  the  heavy,  iron-clamped 
door  opened  by  a  rascally-looking  man  whose  blouse, 
chiefly,  distinguished  him  from  the  race  orang-outang. 

Once  within,  you  would  notice  that  the  door  men- 
tioned was  ribbed  with  wrought  iron  and  that  two 
lateral  bars  of  heavy  metal  were  used  to  secure  it 
from  within.  It  dates  from  the  Reign  of  Terror. 

Having  passed  this  formidable  barrier,  you  would 
follow  the  tunnel  to  a  square  court  paved  with  worn 
granite,  enter  a  rear  passage,  and  mount  a  narrow 
stone  stairway,  the  steps  of  which  are  so  worn  as 
to  leave  an  uncertain  footing.  If  it  happens  to  be 
in  the  night  or  early  morning,  the  brass  knobs  in  the 
centre  of  the  doors  will  be  ornamented  with  milk- 
bottles.  There  are  four  of  these  doors  on  every  land- 
ing, and  consequently  four  "  appartements"  on  each 
floor;  but  as  each  wing  seems  to  have  been  built 
in  a  different  age  from  the  others,  and  no  two  archi- 


148  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

tects  were  able  to  accurately  figure  on  reaching  the 
same  level,  the  effect  is  as  uncertain  as  the  stairs. 

Mile.  Fouchette's  "  home"  consisted  of  but  a  sin- 
gle square  room  fronting  on  the  court  by  two  win- 
dows with  bogus  balconies.  The  daylight  from  these 
windows  showed  a  fireplace  of  immense  size,  and  out 
of  all  proportion  to  the  room,  a  bed  smothered  in  the 
usual  alcove  by  heavy  curtains,  a  divan  improvised 
from  some  ancient  article  of  furniture,  a  small  round 
table,  and  an  easy-chair,  and  two  or  three  others  not 
so  easy.  There  was  one  distinguished  exception  to 
the  general  effect  of  old  age  and  hard  usage,  and  this 
was  a  modern  combination  bureau,  washstand,  and 
dressing-table  with  folding  mirror  attachment,  which 
when  shut  down  was  as  demure  and  dignified  as  an 
upright  piano. 

The  effective  feature  of  a  place  the  entire  contents 
of  which  might  have  been  extravagantly  valued  at 
twenty-five  dollars  was  the  exquisite  harmony  of  col- 
ors. This  effect  is  common  to  French  interiors,  where 
there  is  also  a  common  tendency  to  over-decoration. 
The  harmony  began  in  the  cheap  paper  on  the  walls, 
extended  to  bed  and  window  draperies,  and  ended 
in  the  tissue-paper  lamp-shade  that  at  night  lent  a 
softened,  rhythmical  tone  to  the  whole.  This  genial 
color  effect  was  a  delicate  suggestion  of  blue,  and 
the  result  was  a  doll-like  daintiness  that  was  altogether 
charming. 

The  autographic  fan  mania  had  left  its  mark  over 
the  divan  in  the  shape  of  a  gigantic  fan  constructed 
of  little  fans  and  opening  out  towards  the  ceiling. 
A  few  pen-and-ink  and  pencil  sketches  and  studies, 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  149 

apparently  the  cast-off  of  many  studios,  were  tacked 
up  here  and  there.  The  high  mantel  bore  an  accu- 
mulation of  odds  and  ends  peculiar  to  young  women 
of  low  means  and  cheap  friendships.  That  was  all. 
But  a  French  girl  can  get  the  best  results  from  a 
room,  as  she  can  from  a  hat,  with  the  least  money. 

Mile.  Fouchette  had  reached  all  of  this  private  mag- 
nificence through  a  singular  concatenation  of  circum- 
stances. 

First,  Inspector  Loup. 

That  distinguished  penologist  had  laid  his  hands 
upon  Mile.  Fouchette  in  no  uncertain  way. 

An  order  of  arrest  was  at  this  very  moment  lying 
in  a  certain  pigeon-hole  at  the  Prefecture.  She  had 
seen  it.  The  name  of  "  Mile.  Fouchette"  appeared  in 
the  body  thereof  in  big,  fat,  round  letters,  and  a  com- 
plete description,  age,  height,  color  of  hair  and  eyes, 
and  other  particulars  appeared  across  the  back  of  this 
terrible  paper,  which  was  duly  signed  and  ready  for 
service. 

A  tap  of  the  bell, — a  push  of  an  electric  button, — 
and  Mile.  Fouchette  would  be  in  prison. 

There  were  five  distinct  counts  against  her,  set  forth 
in  ponderous  and  damning  legal  phraseology  and 
briefed  alphabetically  with  a  precision  that  carried  con- 
viction : 

"  A. — Vagrant — no  home — supposed  to  have  come 
from  Nantes. 

"  B. — Consort  of  thieves — confession  of  life  convict 
called  '  le  Cochon,'  drawer  379,  R.  M.  L.  29. 

"  C. — Go-between  of  robbers  of  the  wood  of  Vin- 
cennes  and  receivers  of  stolen  goods.  Confession  of 


ISO  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

M.  Podvin,  wine  merchant,  now  serving  term  of 
twenty-one  years  for  highway  robbery,  drawer  1210, 
R.  M.  L.  70. 

"  D. — Fugitive  from  State  institution,  where  sent 
by  lawful  authority.  See  Le  Bon  Pasteur,  Nancy. 
R.  I.  2734. 

"  E. — Lost  or  destroyed  public  document  addressed 
to  the  Prefecture  and  confided  to  her  care  under  her 
false  representation  of  being  an  authorized  agent  of 
that  department  of  the  government." 

The  service  of  this  dreadful  order  of  arrest,  behind 
which  crouched  these  crimes  ready  to  rise  and  spring 
upon  her,  was  suspended  by  Inspector  Loup.  For 
which  tenderness  and  mercy  Fouchette  was  merely 
to  report  to  the  Secret  Service  bureau  in  accordance 
with  a  preconcerted  arrangement.  « 

Second,  Madeleine. 

Mile.  Fouchette  had  scarcely  ceased  to  bless  In- 
spector Loup  for  his  forbearance  and  kind  considera- 
tion and  was  crossing  the  Pont  au  Change  towards 
the  right  bank  when  she  encountered  a  familiar  face. 
She  was  somewhat  startled  at  first.  Her  catalogue 
of  familiar  faces  was  so  limited  that  it  was  a  sensa- 
tion. 

It  was  the  face  she  had  seen  through  the  iron  gate 
on  the  road  to  Charenton  long,  long  ago! 

Somewhat  fuller,  somewhat  redder,  with  suspicious 
circles  under  the  lustrous  eyes,  yet,  unmistakably,  the 
same  face.  The  plump  figure  looked  still  more  ro- 
bust, and  the  athletic  limbs  showed  through  the  scant 
bloomer  bicycle  suit. 

The  owner  of  this  face  and  figure  did  not  recognize 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  151 

in  the  other  the  petite  chiffonniere  de  Charenton. 
That  would  have  been  too  much  to  expect. 

"  Pardon !   but,  mademoiselle " 

Fouchette  boldly  accosted  her  nevertheless. 

"  Pardon !  You  don't  remember  me  ?  I'm  Fou- 
chette !" 

"Fouchette?" 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle.  You  do  not  remember  the  poor 
little  ragpicker  of  Charenton?  But  of  course  not, — 
it  was  long  ago,  and  I  have  changed." 

The  other  stared  at  her  with  her  big  black  eyes. 

"  I  was  hungry, — you  gave  me  a  nice  sandwich ;  it 
was  kind, — and  I  do  not  easily  forget,  mademoiselle, 
— though  I'm  only  Fouchette, — no!" 

"  What !    Fouchette — the — dame !   it  is  impossible !" 

"  Still,  it  is  true,  mademoiselle,"  insisted  Fouchette, 
laughing. 

"  Ah !  I  see — I  know — why,  it  is  Fouchette !  '  Only 
Fouchette' — oh!  sacre  bleu!  To  think " 

She  embraced  the  girl  between  each  exclamation, 
then  held  her  out  at  arm's  length  and  looked  her 
over  critically,  from  head  to  feet  and  back  again,  then 
kissed  her  some  more  on  both  cheeks,  laughing  mer- 
rily the  while,  and  attracting  the  amused  attention  of 
numerous  passers. 

Mile.  Fouchette  realized,  vaguely,  that  the  laugh 
was  not  that  of  the  pretty  garden  of  years  ago;  she 
saw  that  the  flushed  cheeks  were  toned  down  by  cos- 
metics; she  noted  the  vinous  smell  on  the  woman's 
breath. 

"  Heavens  !  but  how  thin  and  pale  you  are,  petite !" 
exclaimed  the  bicycliste. 


152  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  It  is  true.  I  have  just  come  out  of  the  hospital- 
only  a  few  days " 

"  Pauvrette !  Come !  Let  us  celebrate  this  happy 
reunion,"  said  the  other,  grasping  Fouchette's  arm 
and  striding  along  the  bridge.  "  You  shall  tell  me 
everything,  dear." 

"  But,  Mademoiselle — er " 

"  Madeleine, — just  Madeleine,  Fouchette." 

"  Mademoiselle  Madeleine " 

"  I  live  over  here, — au  Quartier  Latin.  It  is  the  only 
place — the  place  to  see  life.  It  is  Paris !  C'est  la  vie 
joyeuse !" 

"  Ah !   then  you  no  longer  live  at " 

"  Let  us  begin  here,  Fouchette,"  interrupted  Mile. 
Madeleine,  gravely,  "  and  let  us  never  talk  about 
Charenton, — never!  It  cannot  be  a  pleasant  subject 
to  you, — it  is  painful  to  me." 

"  Oh,  pardon  me,  mademoiselle,  I " 

"  So  it  is  understood,  is  it  not  ?" 

"  With  all  my  heart,  mademoiselle !"  said  Fouchette, 
not  sorry  to  conclude  such  a  desirable  bargain. 

"  Very  good.    We  begin  here — — " 

"  Now." 

"  Yes,  and  as  if  we  had  never  before  seen  or  heard 
of  each  other." 

"  Exactly." 

"  Good !  Now,  what  are  you  doing  for  a  living, 
Fouchette?" 

"  Nothing." 

"  Good !    So  am  I." 

They  laughed  quite  a  great  deal  at  this  remarkable 
coincidence  as  they  went  along.  And  when  Mile.  Fou- 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  153 

chette  protested  that  she  must  do  something, — sew- 
ing, or  something, — Mile.  Madeleine  laughed  yet  more 
loudly,  though  Mile.  Fouchette  saw  nothing  humorous 
in  the  situation. 

"  Nobody  works  in  the  Quartier  Latin,"  said  Made- 
leine. "  C'est  la  vie  joyeuse." 

"  But  one  must  eat,  mademoiselle " 

"  Very  sure !     Yes,  and  drink ;    but " 

Mile.  Madeleine  scrutinized  her  companion  closely, 
— evidently  Mile.  Fouchette  was  in  earnest.  Such 
naivete  in  a  ragpicker  was  absurd,  preposterous ! 

"  Well,  there  are  the  studios,"  suggested  Made- 
leine. 

"The— the  studios?" 

"  Yes, — the  painters,  you  know ;  only  models  are 
a  drug  in  the  market  here " 

"Models?" 

"  Yes ;  and,  then,  unless  one  has  the  figure " 

she  glanced  at  Fouchette  doubtfully.  "  I'm  getting 
too  stout  for  anything  but  Roman  mothers,  Breton 
peasants,  etc.  You're  too  thin  even  for  an  angel  or 
ballet  dancer." 

"  I'm  sure  I'd  rather  be  a  danseuse  than  an  angel," 
said  Fouchette, — "  that  is,  if  I've  got  any  choice  in 
the  matter." 

"  But  one  hasn't.  You've  got  to  pose  in  whatever 
character  they  want.  Did  you  ever  pose?" 

"  As  a  painter's  model  ?    Never." 

Having  ensconced  themselves  in  a  popular  cafe 
restaurant  on  Boulevard  St.  Michel,  the  pair  ordered 
an  appetizing  dejeuner,  and  Madeleine  proceeded  to 
enlighten  Fouchette  on  the  subject  of  the  profession, 


154  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

— the  character  and  peculiarities  of  various  artists, 
their  exactions  of  models,  the  recompense  for  holding 
a  certain  pose  for  a  given  time,  the  difficulty  and  art 
of  resuming  exactly  the  same  pose,  the  studios  for 
classes  in  the  nude,  the  students  generally  and  their 
pranks  and  games, — especially  upon  this  latter  branch 
of  the  business. 

Mile.  Fouchette  listened  to  all  this  with  breathless 
interest,  as  may  be  imagined.  For  it  was  the  opening 
up  of  a  new  world  to  her.  The  vivid  description  of 
the  dancing  and  fun  at  the  Bal  Bullier  filled  her  with 
delight  and  enthusiasm.  She  mentally  vowed  Made- 
leine as  charming  and  condescending  as  ever.  The 
girl  had  volunteered,  good-naturedly,  to  make  the 
rounds  of  the  studios  with  her  and  get  her  "  on  the 
list."  When  Madeleine  offered  to  engineer  Fouchette's 
debut  at  the  Bullier  the  latter  cheerfully  paid  for  the 
repast  the  other  had  rather  lavishly  ordered. 

The  mere  chance  rencontre  had  changed  Fouchette's 
entire  plan  of  life.  She  had  bravely  started  for  the 
grand  boulevards  with  the  idea  of  securing  employ- 
ment among  the  myriad  dressmaking  establishments 
of  that  neighborhood,  and  thus  putting  to  practical 
use  her  industrial  knowledge  gained  at  Le  Bon  Pas- 
teur. 

Fortunately  for  her,  Monsieur  Marot's  generous 
liberality  had  placed  her  beyond  immediate  need.  A 
matron  had  equipped  her  with  a  new  though  simple 
costume  and  had  given  her  a  sum  of  money  as  she 
left, — merely  saying  that  she  acted  according  to  in- 
structions; but  Fouchette  felt  that  it  was  from  her 
prince. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  155 

It  was  on  the  advice  of  Madeleine  that  Fouchette 
had  secured  this  place  in  the  Rue  St.  Jacques. 

"  It  will  make  you  independent  and  respected,"  said 
the  practical  grisette.  "  You've  got  the  money  now ; 
you  won't  have  it  after  a  while.  Take  my  advice, — 
fix  the  place  up, — gradually,  don't  you  know?  You'll 
soon  make  friends  who  will  help  you  if  you're  smart; 
and  one  must  have  a  place  to  receive  friends,  n'est-ce 
pas?  And  the  hotels  garnis  rob  one  shamefully!" 

And,  while  Mile.  Fouchette  did  not  dream  of  the 
real  significance  of  this  advice,  she  took  it.  The  de- 
tails were  hers.  She  knew  the  value  of  a  sou  about 
as  well  as  any  woman  in  Paris,  and  no  instructions 
were  required  on  the  subject  of  expenditures.  She 
collected,  piece  by  piece,  at  bottom  prices,  those  arti- 
cles which  had  to  be  purchased ;  made,  stitch  by  stitch, 
such  as  required  the  needle. 

To  Mile.  Fouchette  the  simple,  cheaply  furnished 
and  somewhat  tawdry  little  room  in  the  Rue  St. 
Jacques  was  luxury.  She  was  proud  of  it.  She  was 
perfectly  contented  with  it.  It  was  home. 

With  the  confidence  of  one  who  has  seen  the  worst 
and  for  whom  every  change  must  be  for  the  better, 
Fouchette  had  succeeded  where  others  would  have 
been  discouraged.  This  confidence  to  others  often 
seemed  reckless  indifference,  and  consequently  carried 
a  certain  degree  of  conviction. 

Among  a  certain  class  of  wild  young  men  and  con- 
firmed Bohemians  Fouchette  had  quickly  achieved  a 
sort  of  vogue  which  attaches  to  an  eccentric  woman  in 
Paris.  She  was  eccentric  in  that  she  danced  eccentric 
dances,  was  the  most  reckless  in  the  sportive  circle,  the 


156  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

highest  kicker  at  the  Bullier,  and,  most  of  all,  in  that 
she  had  no  lovers.  Unlike  the  Mimi  Pinsons  of  the 
Murger  era  of  the  quarter,  Fouchette  was  the  most 
notorious  of  grisettes  without  being  a  grisette.  At 
the  fete  of  the  student  painters  at  the  Bullier  she 
had  been  borne  on  a  palanquin  clad  only  in  a  garland 
of  roses  amid  thousands  of  vociferous  young  people 
of  both  sexes.  The  same  night  she  had  kicked  a 
young  man's  front  teeth  out  for  presuming  on  liber- 
ties other  girls  of  her  set  would  have  considered 
trifling. 

Fouchette  at  once  became  the  reigning  sensation  of 
"  la  vie  joyeuse."  Having  had  little  or  no  pleasure  in 
the  world  up  to  her  entree  here,  she  had  plunged  into 
the  gayety  of  the  quarter  with  an  abandon  that  within 
two  short  months  had  made  the  Bohemian  tales  of 
Henri  Murger  tame  reading. 

Her  pedal  dexterity  in  a  quarrel  had  won  for  her  the 
sobriquet  of  "  La  Savatiere." 

The  "  savate"  as  practised  by  the  French  boxer  is 
the  art  of  using  the  feet  the  same  as  the  hands,  and  it 
is  a  means  of  offence  not  to  be  despised.  It  is  the  feline 
art  that  utilizes  all  four  limbs  in  combat.  Fouchette 
acquired  it  in  her  infancy, — in  the  fun  and  frequent 
scrimmages  of  the  quarter  she  found  occasion  to  prac- 
tise it.  Mile.  Fouchette's  temper  was  as  eccentric  as 
her  dances. 

On  the  wall  of  Mile.  Fouchette's  room  hung  a  rude 
crayon  of  that  damsel  by  a  prominent  caricaturist.  It 
was  a  front  view  of  her  face,  in  which  the  artist  had 
maliciously  accentuated,  in  a  few  bold  strokes,  the 
feline  fulness  of  jaws,  the  half-contracted  eyelids,  the 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  157 

alert  eyes,  and  general  catlike  expression, — to  be  seen 
only  when  Mile.  Fouchette  was  in  anger.  It  was  the 
subtle  touch  of  the  master,  and  was  labelled  "  La  Petite 
Chatte." 

"  Ah,  ce !"  she  would  say  to  curious  visitors, — "  it  is 
not  me ;  it  is  the  mind  of  Leandre." 

As  Mile.  Fouchette  stood  tiptoeing  before  a  little 
folding  mirror  on  the  high  mantel,  the  reflection 
showed  both  front  and  sides  of  a  face  that  betrayed 
none  of  these  characteristics.  In  fact,  the  blonde  hair, 
smoothed  flat  to  the  skull  and  draping  low  over  the 
ears,  after  the  fashion  set  by  a  popular  actress  of  the 
day,  gave  her  the  demure  look  of  a  young  woman  who 
might  shriek  at  the  sight  of  a  man  in  his  shirt-sleeves. 
Which  shows  that  it  is  exceedingly  unsafe  to  judge  by 
appearances, — of  a  woman,  especially.  The  slender 
figure  showed  that  the  physical  indications  in  the  deli- 
cately rounded  arm,  the  taper  fingers,  and  shapely  feet 
were  justified  by  the  proportionate  development  of  the 
rest  of  her  anatomy.  Nature  had  been  gentle  rather 
than  generous.  Mile.  Fouchette  was  in  demand  for 
angels  and  ballet  dancers. 

Her  face,  evidently,  did  not  suit  Mile.  Fouchette, 
since  she  was  at  this  moment  in  the  act  of  touching  it 
up  and  making  it  over  with  colors  from  an  enamelled 
box, — a  trick  of  the  Parisienne  of  every  grade. 

Mile.  Fouchette  had  scarcely  put  the  finishing 
touches  to  her  artistic  job  when  her  door  vibrated 
under  a  vigorous  blow. 

She  paused,  hesitated,  flushed  with  symptoms  of  a 
rising  temper.  One  does  not  feel  kindly  towards  per- 
sons hurling  themselves  thus  against  one's  private 


158  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

door.  But  the  noise  continued,  as  if  somebody  beat 
the  heavy  planking  with  the  fist,  and  Mile.  Fouchette 
threw  the  door  open. 

Mile.  Madeleine  staggered  into  the  room. 

"How's  this?  melon!" 

"  Oh !  so  you're  here, — you  are  not  there !"  gasped 
the  intruder,  falling  into  a  seat  and  fixing  her  black 
eyes  sullenly  upon  the  other. 

Mile.  Fouchette  closed  the  door  with  a  snap  and  con- 
fronted her  visitor  with  a  hardening  face. 

"  I  thought  it  was  you,  Fouchette !" 

"  Madeleine,  you're  drunk !" 

"  No,  no,  no,  no !  I  have  had  such  a — a — turn, 
deary, — pardon  me!  But  she  had  the  same  figure, — 
the  same  hair, — mon  Dieu !" 

"Who?" 

"  Oh !  I  don't  know,  Fouchette, — the  woman  with 
him,  you  know, — with  Henri,  Fouchette !" 

The  speaker  seemed  overcome  with  mingled  terror 
and  anger.  She  stopped  to  collect  her  thoughts, — to 
get  her  breath. 

"  What  a  fool  you  are,  Madeleine !  I  wouldn't  go 
on  that  way  for  the  best  man  living !  No !" 

And  Fouchette  thought  of  Jean  Marot,  and  mentally 
included  him. 

"  Oh !  Fouchette,  dear,  you  do  not  know  !  You  can- 
not know !  You  never  loved !  You  cannot  love !  You 
are  calm  and  cold  and  indifferent, — it  is  your  nature. 
Mine!  I  am  consumed  by  fire, — it  grips  my  very 
vitals !  Ah !  Fouchette !" 

"  Bah !  Madeleine,  it  is  absinthe,"  said  Fouchette, 
only  half  pityingly. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  159 

"  No,  no,  no,  no !"  moaned  the  other,  covering  her 
face  with  her  hands. 

"  So  this  Lerouge  has  disappeared,  eh  ?  Well,  then, 
let  him  go,  fool !  Are  there  not  others  ?" 

"  Mon  Dieu !    Fouchette,  how  you  talk !" 

"  Who  is  this  lucky  woman  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know, — I  do  not  know !  Pardon  me  for 
thinking  it,  Fouchette,  but  I  was  half  crazy, — I  thought 
but  just  now  that  it  was — was  you !" 

"Idiot!" 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  but  one  does  not  stop  to  reason 
where  one  loves." 

"  As  if  I  would  throw  myself  into  the  arms  of  any 
man !  You  sicken  me,  Madeleine.  But  I  thought  this 
Lerouge,  whoever  he  is, — I  never  even  saw  him, — had 
disappeared ' ' 

"  From  his  place  in  the  Rue  Monge,  yes.  Fouchette, 
why  should  he  run  away  ?" 

"  With  a  girl  he  likes  better  than  you  ?  What  a 
question !  All  men  do  that,  you  silly  goose !" 

"  He  said  it  was  his  sister.  Bah !  I  know  better, 
Fouchette.  Her  name's  Remy, — yes,  Mademoiselle 
Remy.  And  a  little,  skinny,  tow-headed  thing  like — 
oh !  no,  no,  no !  Fouchette,  pardon  me !  I  didn't  mean 
that!  I'm  half  crazy !" 

"  I  believe  you,"  said  Fouchette. 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  Marot  told  me " 

Mile.  Fouchette  had  started  so  perceptibly  that  the 
speaker  stopped.  Mile.  Fouchette  had  carefully 
guarded  her  own  secrets,  but  this  sudden  surprise 
was 

"  Well,  melon !"  she  snapped. 


160  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  I — why,  I  didn't  know  you " 

"What  did  Monsieur  Marot  tell  you?"  demanded 
the  other. 

"  That  her  name  was  Remy." 

"  Oh  1"  said  Mile.  Fouchette,  coldly. 

"  So  you  know  Monsieur  Marot  ?  They  say  he  re- 
sembles Lerouge,  but  I  don't  think  so.  Anyhow,  he's 
in  love  with  Mademoiselle  Remy." 

Mile.  Fouchette's  steel-blue  eyes  flashed  fire. 

"  You  lie !"  she  screamed,  in  sudden  frenzy.  "  You 
lie !  you  drunken  gossip !" 

Mile.  Madeleine  was  on  her  feet  in  an  instant,  but 
Fouchette's  right  foot  caught  her  on  the  point  of  the 
chin,  and  the  stout  grisette  went  down  like  a  log. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

MADELEINE  came  to  her  senses  to  find  her  antago- 
nist bending  over  her  with  a  wet  towel  and  weeping 
hysterically. 

They  immediately  embraced  and  wept  together. 

Then  Mile.  Fouchette  rummaged  in  the  deep  closet 
in  the  wall  and  brought  forth  a  bottle  of  cognac. 
Whereupon  Madeleine  not  only  suddenly  dried  her 
tears  but  began  to  smile.  Half  an  hour  later  she  had 
forgotten  all  unpleasantness  and  went  away  leaving 
many  endearments  behind  her. 

Mile.  Fouchette  was  scarcely  less  astonished  at  her 
own  outburst  than  had  been  her  friend  Madeleine, 
when  she  had  time  to  think  of  it. 

What  could  Jean  Marot  be  to  her,  Fouchette  ?  Noth- 
ing- 
Suppose  he  did  love  this  Mile.  Remy,  what  of  it? 
Nothing. 

Monsieur  Marot  was  a  being  afar  off,  inaccessible, 
almost  intangible, — like  the  millionaire  employer  to  his 
humble  workman,  covered  with  sweat  and  grime,  at 
the  bottom  of  the  shop. 

When  Mile.  Fouchette  thought  of  him  it  was  only 
in  that  way,  and  she  would  have  no  more  thought  of 
even  so  much  as  wishing  for  him  than  she  would  have 
wished  for  the  moon  to  play  with.  She  had  met  him, 
by  accident,  twice  since  her  departure  from  his  roof, 
and  the  first  time  he  had  a  hurried,  uneasy  air,  as  if  he 
feared  she  might  presume  to  detain  him.  The  second 
time  he  had  gone  out  of  his  way  to  stop  her  and  talk 

ii  161 


1 62  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

to  her  and  to  inquire  what  she  was  doing  and  how  she 
was  getting  along, — condescendingly,  as  one  might  in- 
terest himself  for  the  moment  in  a  former  servant. 

In  the  mean  time  Jean  Marot  had  held  himself  aloof 
from  "  la  vie  joyeuse"  and  from  the  reunions  at  "  Le 
Petit  Rouge."  It  attracted  the  attention  of  his  asso- 
ciates. 

"  First  Lerouge,  now  it's  Jean,"  growled  Villeroy. 
"  Comes  of  loafing  along  the  quais  nights, — it's  mala- 
ria." 

"  He's  greatly  changed,"  remarked  another  student. 

"  It's  worry,"  said  another. 

"  Probably  debts,"  observed  young  Massard,  think- 
ing of  his  chief  affliction. 

"  Bah !  that  kind  of  worry  never  pulls  you  down 
like  this,"  retorted  a  companion. 

"  Now,  don't  get  personal ;  but  debts  do  worry  a 
fellow, — debts  and  women." 

"  Put  women  first ;  debts  follow  as  a  necessary  cor- 
ollary." 

"  He  ought  to  hunt  up  Lerouge.  What  the  devil  is 
in  that  Lerouge,  anyhow  ?" 

"  More  women,"  said  Massard. 

"And  debts,  eh?" 

"  Oh,  well,"  continued  Massard,  "  if  she  is  a  pretty 
woman " 

"  She's  more  than  pretty,"  cut  in  George  Villeroy, — 
"  she's  a  beauty !" 

"Hear!  hear!    fresbien!" 

But  the  student  turned  to  the  "  subject"  on  the 
"  dressing-table,"  humming  a  gay  chanson  of  Mus- 
set: 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  163 

" '  Nous  aliens  chanter  a  la  ronde, 

Si  vous  voulez. 

Que  je  1'adore,  et  qu'elle  est  blonde 
Comme  les  bles  !'  " 

"A  man  never  should  neglect  his  lectures  for  any- 
thing, and  that's  what  both  Lerouge  and  Jean  are 
doing,"  remarked  a  serious  young  man,  looking  up 
from  his  book. 

"  Yes,  and  the  first  thing  our  comrade  Marot  will 
know,  he'll  be  recalled  by  his  choleric  father.  He's 
taken  to  absinthe,  too " 

"  Which  is  worse." 

"  The  worst " 

"And  prowling " 


"  And  moping  off  alone." 
"What's  the  lady's  name?" 
"  Mademoiselle  Fouchette." 
"  What !  the  wild,  untamed- 


"  La  Savatiere ?    Nonsense!" 

"  Here's  a  lock  of  her  hair  in  evidence,"  remarked 
Massard,  going  to  a  drawer  and  taking  out  a  bit  of 
paper.  "  It  is  as  clear  to  my  mind  as  it  was  to  the 
police  that  Monsieur  Marot  had  that  girl,  or  some 
other  like  her,  up  here  that  night." 

"  Let  me  see  that,"  said  Villeroy. 

"  I  found  it  on  the  floor  the  next  day, — the  inspector 
took  away  quite  a  bunch  of  it,"  continued  the  young 
man,  as  the  other  examined  the  lock. 

"  There  are  two  women  who  have  hair  like  that," 
said  Villeroy, — "  Fouchette  and  the  girl  who  goes  with 
Lerouge.  Now,  which  is  it?" 

"  Her  name  is  Remy, — Mademoiselle  Remy,"  ob- 


1 64  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

served  Massard;  "and,  as  George  says,  she's  a 
beauty " 

"  Which  cannot  be  said  of  La  Savatiere." 

"No;  and  yet " 

"  Lerouge  keeps  his  beauty  mighty  close,"  inter- 
rupted Massard.  "  I  never  saw  her  but  once,  and  she 
reminded  me  of  that  little  devil,  Fouchette,  who  stands 
in  with  the  police,  or  she  would  have  been  locked  up  a 
dozen  times." 

"  Very  likely,"  observed  Villeroy. 

******* 

It  was  now  Mardi  Gras,  and  the  whole  Ville  Lu- 
miere  was  en  fete.  The  left  bank  of  the  Seine,  the 
resort  of  nearly  twenty  thousand  students,  was  espe- 
cially joyous. 

There  was  one  young  man,  however,  who  chose  to 
be  alone,  and  he  stood  apart  from  the  world,  leaning 
over  the  worn  parapet  of  the  Pont  Neuf,  gazing  idly 
on  the  rushing  waters  of  the  Seine. 

Jean  Marot  loved  the  noble  span  that  for  more  than 
three  hundred  years  had  connected  the  ancient  Isle  de 
la  Cite  with  the  mainland.  A  long  line  of  kings, 
queens,  emperors,  princes,  princesses,  and  noblemen 
of  every  degree  had  lived  and  passed  the  Pont  Neuf. 
Royal  knights,  stout  men-at-arms,  myriads  of  mailed 
warriors  and  citizen  soldiers,  countless  multitudes  of 
men  and  women,  had  come  and  gone  above  these 
massive  stone  arches  of  three  centuries. 

Yet  the  young  man  thought  not  of  these.  His  mind 
was  occupied  by  one  little,  slender,  fair-haired  woman, 
and  that  one  unattainable.  Had  he  analyzed  his  new 
mental  condition,  he  might  have  marvelled  that  the 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  165 

little  winged  god  could  have  aimed  so  straight  and  let 
fly  so  unexpectedly.  True  love,  however,  does  not 
come  of  reasoning,  but  rather  in  spite  of  it.  And,  to 
do  Jean's  Latin  race  justice,  he  never  thought  of  doing 
such  a  thing,  and  thus  spared  his  love  being  reduced 
to  a  palpable  absurdity.  The  bronze  shadow  of  that 
royal  Latin  lover,  Henri  IV.,  looked  down  upon  the 
modern  Frenchman  approvingly. 

A  sharp  shower  of  confetti  and  the  laughter  of 
young  girls  roused  the  young  man  from  his  revery  and 
brought  his  thoughts  down  to  date. 

"  Monsieur  has  forgotten  that  Boulevard  St.  Michel 
is  en  fete,"  said  a  rich  contralto  voice  behind  him. 

He  turned  to  receive  a  handful  of  confetti  dashed 
smartly  in  his  face  and  to  look  into  a  pair  of  bold 
black  eyes. 

"  Mon  Dieu !     It  is  Monsieur  Marot !" 

"  Hello !    Madeleine, — you,  Fouchette  ?" 

"  Yes,  monsieur,"  replied  the  latter  gayly.  "  And 
you, — is  it  a  day  to  dream  of  casting  one's  self  into 
the  Seine?" 

Meanwhile,  the  object  of  this  raillery  was  busily  ex- 
tracting bits  of  colored  paper  from  his  eyebrows  and 
neck, — a  wholly  useless  proceeding,  for  both  girls  im- 
mediately deluged  him  with  a  fresh  avalanche. 

Madeleine  was  in  her  costume  a  la  bicyclette,  her 
sailor  hat  tipped  forward  to  such  a  degree  that  it  was 
necessary  for  her  to  elevate  her  stout  chin  in  order 
to  see  anything  on  a  level.  Mile.  Fouchette  affected 
the  clinging,  fluffy  style  of  costume  best  suited  to  her 
figure,  while  her  rare  blonde  hair  a  la  Merode  was 
her  distinguishing  feature.  She  dominated  the  older 


1 66  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

and  stouter  girl  as  if  the  latter  were  an  irresponsible 
junior. 

Jean  Marot  knew  very  well  the  type  of  grisette  in- 
digenous to  the  Quartier  Latin. 

The  day  justified  all  sorts  of  familiarity,  and  his 
black  velvet  beret  and  flowing  black  scarf  were  an 
invitation  to  fraternity,  good  fellowship,  and  confi- 
dence. 

Both  young  women  were  in  high  spirits  and  carried 
in  bags  of  fancy  netting  with  tricolor  draw-strings 
their  surplus  stock  of  confetti,  and  an  enormous  quan- 
tity of  the  surplus  stock  of  other  manifestants  in  their 
hair  and  clothing.  As  fast  as  Jean  picked  out  the 
confetti  from  his  neck  Mile.  Madeleine  playfully 
squandered  other  handfuls  on  him,  winding  up  by 
covering  the  young  man  with  the  entire  contents  of 
her  bag  at  a  single  coup. 

"Ah!  Madeleine!" 

"  Monsieur  will  buy  us  some  more,"  replied  that 
young  woman. 

"  How  foolish !"  said  Mile.  Fouchette,  affecting  a 
charming  modesty.  She  had  a  way  of  cocking  her 
fair  head  to  one  side  like  a  bird. 

"  Never  mind,  mes  enfants,"  said  Jean.  "  Come 
along." 

The  three  linked  arms  and  passed  off  the  bridge 
and  up  the  Rue  Dauphine  and  Rue  de  Monsieur  le 
Prince  for  Boulevard  St.  Michel,  the  lively  young 
women  distributing  confetti  in  liberal  doses  and  taking 
similar  punishment  in  utmost  good  humor,  Jean  not 
sorry  for  the  time  being  at  finding  this  temporary  dis- 
traction. He  had  generously  replenished  the  pretty 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  167 

bags  from  the  first  baraque,  though  they  were  quickly 
emptied  again  in  the  narrow  Rue  de  Monsieur  le 
Prince,  where  a  hot  engagement  between  students 
and  "  filles  du  quartier"  was  in  progress. 

Mile.  Madeleine  was  fairly  choking  with  laughter. 
She  had  just  caught  a  young  man  with  his  mouth 
open,  by  a  trick  of  the  elbow;  and  as  he  mutely 
sputtered  confetti  her  petite  blonde  companion  caught 
her  long  skirt  aside  and  kicked  his  hat  off.  This 
"  coup  de  pied"  was  administered  with  such  marvel- 
lous grace  and  dexterity  that  even  the  victim  joined 
in  the  roar  of  laughter  that  followed  it.  A  thin  smile 
spread  over  her  pale  face  as  Jean  looked  at  her. 

"  La  Savatiere, — bravo !"    cried  a  youth. 

"  C'est  le  lapin  du  Luxembourg,"  said  another. 

"  It  is  Mademoiselle  Fouchette." 

"  There,  monsieur,"  remarked  Fouchette,  slyly, 
"  you  see  I'm  getting  known  in  the  quarter." 

"  I  don't  wonder,"  said  Jean,  laughing. 

They  found  seats  beneath  the  awnings  at  the  Ta- 
verne  du  Pantheon.  The  rain  of  confetti  was  getting 
to  be  a  deluge.  He  asked  them  what  they  would 
have. 

"  Un  ballon,  garqon,"  said  Mile.  Fouchette, 
promptly. 

This  designated  a  small  glass  of  beer,  served  in 
a  balloon-shaped  glass  like  a  large  claret  glass. 

Madeleine  also  would  take  "  un  ballon,"  Jean  con- 
tenting himself  with  the  usual  "  bock," — an  ordinary 
glass  of  beer. 

Each  covered  the  beer  with  the  little  saucer,  to 
protect  it  from  the  occasional  gust  of  confetti  that 


1 68  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

even  found  its  way  to  the  extreme  rear  of  the  half  a 
hundred  sidewalk  sitters. 

Mile.  Fouchette  had  been  studying  the  young  man 
from  the  corners  of  her  eyes.  She  saw  him  greatly 
changed.  His  handsome  face  betrayed  marks  of 
worry  or  dissipation, — she  decided  on  the  latter. 
What  could  a  young  man  in  his  enviable  position 
have  to  worry  about?  Was  it  possible  that 

"  Monsieur,"  she  began  at  once,  with  the  air  of  an 
ingenue,  "  they  say  you  strongly  resemble  one  Lerouge, 
— that  you  are  often  taken  one  for  the  other.  Is  it  so  ?" 

He  glanced  at  her  inquiringly,  while  Madeleine 
patted  the  ground  with  her  foot. 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  Henri  Lerouge  ?"    he  asked. 

"  No,  never,"  replied  Fouchette. 

"Does  he  look  like  me,  Madeleine?" 

"  Not  much,  monsieur,"  responded  that  damsel. 
"  Have  you  seen  him, — have  you  seen  Lerouge 
lately?" 

"  No, — no,"  said  he. 

"  From  what  I  learn,"  remarked  Mile.  Fouchette, 
with  a  precision  and  nonchalance  that  defied  suspicion, 
"  Monsieur  Lerouge  is  probably  off  in  some  sweet  soli- 
tude unknown  to  vulgar  eye  enjoying  his  honey- 
moon/" 

Madeleine  shot  one  furious  glance  at  the  speaker; 
but  not  daring  to  trust  her  tongue,  she  suddenly  ex- 
cused herself  and  disappeared  in  the  throng. 

Jean  saw  that  she  had  been  cut  to  the  quick,  and 
her  abrupt  action  served  for  the  moment  to  dull  the 
pain  at  his  own  heart.  He  concealed  his  resentment 
at  this  malicious — but,  after  all,  this  "  child  of  the 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  169 

police"  could  not  know.  He  shifted  the  talk  to  Made- 
leine. 

"  You  seem  to  have  offended  her,  mademoiselle." 

"  Bah !    Madeleine  is  that  jealous " 

"What?    Lerouge?" 

"  Of  Lerouge.    Can't  you  see?" 

"  No, — that  is,  I  didn't  know  that  she  had  anything 
in  common  with  Lerouge." 

"  Ah,  <;a !  When  she  flies  into  a  rage  at  the  men- 
tion of  him  and  another  woman?  Monsieur  is  not 
gifted  with  surprising  penetration." 

"  But  Mademoiselle  Madeleine  is  rather  a  hand- 
some girl,"  he  observed,  tentatively.  While  he  men- 
tally resolved  not  to  be  robbed  of  his  own  secret  he 
was  not  averse  to  gaining  any  information  this  girl 
might  possess. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  she, — "  for  those  who  admire  the 
robust  style.  But  you  should  see  the  other;  she's  an 
angel !" 

"Indeed?" 

It  was  hard  to  put  this  in  a  tone  of  indifference, 
and  he  felt  her  eyes  upon  him. 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

"  I'd  like  to  see  her.  You  know  angels  are  not  to 
be  seen  every  day." 

"  Monsieur  Lerouge  can  be  trusted,  I  suppose,  to 
render  these  visions  as  fleeting  and  rare  as  possible." 

He  winced  perceptibly. 

"  But  Madeleine  has  magnificent  eyes,"  he  sug- 
gested. 

"  This  other  has  the  eyes  of  heaven,  monsieur." 

"  And  as  for  figure " 


1 70  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  Chut !  monsieur  is  joking, — the  form  of  a  Nor- 
mandie  nurse!  Mademoiselle  Remy  is  the  sculptor's 
dream !" 

Jean  Marot  laughed.  This  unstinted  praise  of  the 
girl  who  had  fascinated  him, — who  had  robbed  him 
of  his  rest, — who  had  without  an  effort,  and  uncon- 
sciously, taken  possession  of  his  soul, — it  was  in- 
cense to  him.  Truly,  Mile.  Fouchette  had  an  artistic 
eye, — a  most  excellent  judgment.  It  extracted  the 
sting 

"  Yes,"  continued  Mile.  Fouchette,  looking  through 
him  as  if  he  were  so  much  glass,  "  a  great  artist  said 
to  me  the  other  day " 

"  Pardon !  but,  mademoiselle,  does  your  new  beauty, 
— the  '  sculptor's  dream,'  you  know, — does  she  do  the 
studios  of  the  quarter?" 

"No!    Why  should  she?" 

He  was  silent.    Would  she  have  another  drink? 

"  Thanks !  Un  ballon,  gargon,"  repeated  Mile.  Fou- 
chette. 

They  looked  at  the  crowd  in  silence  for  a  while. 

The  scene  was  inspiriting.  With  the  shades  of 
evening  the  joyous  struggle  waxed  more  furious.  The 
entire  street  was  now  taken  up  by  the  merrymakers, 
who  made  the  air  resound  with  their  screams  and 
shrieks  of  laughter.  The  confetti  lay  three  or  four 
inches  deep  on  the  walks,  where  street  gamins  slyly 
scraped  it  into  private  receptacles  for  second  use. 
The  haze  of  dust  hung  over  the  broad  Boulevard 
St.  Michel  like  a  morning  fog  over  a  swamp.  Mile. 
Fouchette  watched  the  scene  for  a  few  minutes  with- 
out a  word.  Both  were  thinking  of  something  else. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  171 

"  She'll  soon  get  over  it,  never  fear." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  he  said,  knowing  that  she  still  spoke 
of  Madeleine,  and  somewhat  bored  at  her  reappear- 
ance in  the  conversation. 

"  A  woman  does  not  go  on  loving  a  man  who  never 
cares  for  her, — who  loves  another." 

"  '  Loves  another,'  "  he  repeated,  absently. 

"  But  if  Madeleine  meets  them  just  now, — oh ! 
look  out,  monsieur!  She's  a  tiger!" 

He  shuddered.  He  was  unable  to  stand  this  any 
longer ;  he  rose  absent-mindedly  and,  with  scant  cour- 
tesy to  the  gossipper,  incontinently  fled. 

"  Ah !  what  a  handsome  fellow  he  is !  Yet  he  is 
certainly  a  fool  about  women.  A  pig  like  Made- 
leine! But,  then,  all  men  are  fools  when  it  comes  to 
a  woman." 

With  this  bit  of  philosophy  Mile.  Fouchette  buried 
her  dainty  nose  in  the  last  "  ballon."  She  quenched 
a  rising  sigh  by  the  operation.  For  some  reason  she 
was  not  quite  happy.  As  she  withdrew  it  her  face 
suddenly  became  all  animation. 

"  Ah !"  she  muttered,  "  I'd  give  my  last  louis  now 
if  that  melon,  Madeleine,  could  only  see  that." 

Directly  in  front  of  her  and  not  ten  feet  distant 
a  young  man  and  a  young  girl  slowly  forced  a  pas- 
sage through  the  conflicting  currents  of  boisterous 
people.  The  man  was  anywhere  between  twenty-five 
and  thirty,  of  supple  figure,  serious  face,  and  sombre 
eyes  that  lighted  up  reluctantly  at  all  of  this  frivolity. 
It  was  only  when  they  were  turned  upon  the  sweet 
young  face  of  the  girl  at  his  side  that  they  took  on 
a  glow  of  inexpressible  sweetness. 


172  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  Truly !"  said  Mile.  Fouchette  to  herself,  "  but  she 
is  something  on  my  style." 

Which  is  perhaps  the  highest  compliment  one  woman 
can  pay  another.  It  meant  that  her  "  style"  was  quite 
satisfactory, — the  right  thing.  Yet  Mile.  Fouchette 
really  needed  some  fifty  pounds  of  additional  flesh 
to  get  into  the  same  class. 

If  the  rippling  laughter,  the  shining  azure  of  her 
eyes,  the  ever-changing  expression  of  her  mobile 
mouth,  and  now  and  then  the  rapt  look  bestowed  upon 
her  companion  were  indications,  she  certainly  was  a 
happy  young  woman.  Her  right  hand  rested  upon 
his  arm,  her  left  shielded  her  face  from  the  too  fierce 
onslaughts  of  confetti.  Neither  of  them  took  an  active 
part  in  the  fun.  That,  however,  did  not  deter  the 
young  men  from  complimenting  her  with  a  continu- 
ous shower  of  confetti.  The  girl  laughingly  shook 
it  out  of  her  beautiful  blonde  hair. 

"  Aliens  done !  She  has  my  hair,  too !"  thought 
Mile.  Fouchette.  It  is  impossible  not  to  admire  our- 
selves in  others. 

With  the  excitement  of  an  unaccustomed  pleasure 
mantling  her  neck  and  cheeks  the  girl  was  certainly 
a  pretty  picture.  The  plain  and  simple  costume  was 
of  the  cut  of  the  provinces  rather  than  that  of  Paris, 
but  it  set  off  the  lithe  and  graceful  figure  that  needed 
no  artificiality  of  the  dressmaker  to  enforce  its  petite 
perfection. 

"  That  must  be  Lerouge,"  thought  Mile.  Fouchette. 
"  He  does  look  something  like — no ;  it  is  imagination. 
He  is  not  nearly  so  handsome  as  Monsieur  Marot. 
But  she  is  sweet !" 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  173 

The  couple  were  forced  over  against  the  chairs  by 
the  crowd  and  Mile.  Fouchette  got  a  good  look  at 
them.  The  eyes  of  Mile.  Remy  met  hers, — they  sought 
the  face  of  her  companion,  and  returned  and  rested 
curiously  upon  Mile.  Fouchette.  The  glance  of  her 
escort  followed  in  the  same  direction.  And  even  after 
they  had  passed  he  half  turned  again  and  looked 
back  at  the  girl  sitting  alone  amid  the  crowd  under 
the  awning. 

Jean  Marot  had  plunged  into  the  throng  to  try 
and  shake  off  the  unpleasant  suggestions  of  Mile. 
Fouchette.  While  he  felt  instinctively  the  feminine 
malice,  it  was  none  the  less  bitter  to  his  taste.  It 
was  opening  a  wound  afresh  and  salting  it.  He  felt 
that  the  idea  suggested  by  "  La  Savatiere"  was  intol- 
erable,— impossible.  He  paced  up  and  down  alone 
in  the  Luxembourg  gardens  until  retreat  was  sounded. 
Then  he  re-entered  the  boulevard  by  the  Place  de 
Medicis,  dodged  a  bevy  of  singing  grisettes  in  male 
attire,  to  suddenly  find  himself  face  to  face  with  the 
object  of  his  thoughts. 

How  beautiful,  and  sweet  and  pure  and  innocent 
she  looked !  The  laughing  eyes,  the  profusion  of  hair 
with  its  tint  of  gold,  now  sparkling  with  confetti, 
the  two  rows  of  pearls  between  their  rich  rims  of 
red, — it  surely  was  an  angel  from  the  skies  and  not 
a  woman  who  stood  before  him !  And  his  knees  trem- 
bled with  the  desire  to  let  him  to  the  earth  at  her 
feet. 

The  young  girl  regarded  him  first  in  semi-recogni- 
tion, then  with  blank  astonishment, — as  well  she 
might.  She  shrank  closer  to  her  protector. 


i-74  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

Henri  Lerouge  had  at  first  looked  at  his  former 
friend  with  a  dark  and  scowling  face;  but  Jean  had 
seen  only  the  girl,  and  therefore  failed  to  note  the 
expression  of  satisfaction  that  swiftly  succeeded. 

"  Pardon !  but,  monsieur,  even  Mardi  Gras  does 
not  excuse  a  boor."  And  Lerouge  somewhat  roughly 
elbowed  him  to  one  side. 

The  insult  from  Lerouge  was  nothing.  Jean  never 
thought  of  that.  She  had  come,  she  had  ignored  him, 
she  had  gone, — the  woman  he  loved ! 

He  stood  speechless  for  a  moment,  then  staggered 
away,  his  self-love  bleeding. 

Unconsciously  he  had  taken  the  direction  they  had 
gone,  slowly  groping  his  way  rather  than  walking, 
next  to  the  iron  fence  of  the  Luxembourg  gardens, 
past  the  great  School  of  Mines,  along  the  Boulevard 
St.  Michel  towards  the  Observatory.  Like  a  drunken 
man  he  stuck  close  to  the  walls,  and  thus  crossed  the 
obtuse  angle  into  Rue  Denfert-Rocherau.  Hesitating 
at  the  tomb-like  buildings  that  mark  the  entrance  to 
the  catacombs  at  the  end  of  that  street,  he  leaned 
against  the  great  wrought-iron  grille  and  tried  to  col- 
lect his  thoughts. 

He  remembered  now;  this  was  where  he  had  gone 
down  one  day  to  view  the  rows  and  stacks  of  boxes 
and  vaults  of  mouldering  bones.  Yes,  he  even  recalled 
the  humorous  idea  of  that  day  that  there  were  more 
Parisians  beneath  the  pavements  of  Paris  than  above 
them,  and  that  they  slept  better  o'  nights. 

The  cold  wind  stirred  the  branches,  and  they  grated 
against  the  fence  with  a  dismal,  sighing  sound. 

"  Loves  another !" 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  175 

Was  it  not  that  which  it  said  ? 

"  Loves  another !"  in  plain  and  well-measured  ca- 
dence. 

And  the  word  "  1-o-v-e-s"  was  long  and  sorrowfully 
drawn  out,  and  "  another"  came  sharply  decisive. 

He  wandered  on,  aimlessly,  yet  in  the  general  direc- 
tion of  Montrouge.  Fouchette, — yes,  she  had  told  the 
truth.  He — where  was  he  ? 

The  streets  up  here  were  practically  deserted,  the 
entire  population,  apparently,  having  gone  to  the  bou- 
levards. Here  and  there  some  rez-de-chaussee  aglow 
showed  the  usual  gossippers  of  the  concierges.  Now 
and  then  isolated  merrymakers  were  returning,  cov- 
ered with  confetti,  having  exhausted  themselves  and 
the  pleasures  of  the  day  together. 

Rue  Halle, — he  remembered  now,  though  he  scarcely 
noted  it. 

All  at  once  his  heart  gave  a  bound.  His  mind  came 
down  to  vulgar  earth.  It  was  at  the  sight  of  a  solitary 
woman  who  sped  swiftly  round  the  corner  from  the 
Avenue  d'Orleans  and  came  towards  him.  Her  stout 
figure  between  him  and  the  electric  light  cast  a  long 
shadow  down  the  street, — the  shadow  of  a  woman  in 
bloomer  costume,  with  a  hat  perched  forward  at  an 
angle  of  forty-five  degrees. 

It  was  Mile.  Madeleine. 

What  could  she  be  doing  here  at  this  hour, — she, 
who  lived  in  Rue  Monge? 

Before  he  could  answer  this  question  she  was  almost 
upon  him.  But  she  was  so  absorbed  in  her  own  pur- 
poses that  she  saw  him  not,  merely  turning  to  the 
right  up  the  Rue  Halle  with  the  quick  and  certain  step 


1 76  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

of  one  who  knows.  Her  black  brows  were  set  fiercely, 
and  beneath  them  the  big  dark  eyes  glittered  danger- 
ously. Her  full  lips  were  tightly  compressed;  in  the 
firmness  of  her  tread  was  a  world  of  determination. 

Jean  had  obtained  a  good  view  of  her  face  as  she 
crossed  the  street,  and  he  shuddered.  For  in  it  he  saw 
reflected  the  state  of  his  own  tempestuous  soul.  He 
had  read  therein  his  own  mind  distempered  by  love  and 
doubt  and  torn  by  jealousy,  disappointment,  and  de- 
spair. 

He  recalled  the  warning  of  Mile.  Fouchette,  and 
he  trembled  for  the  woman  he  loved.  Well  he  com- 
prehended the  French  character  where  love  and  hatred 
are  concerned. 

At  Rue  Bezout  the  girl  turned  to  the  left,  crossed 
over,  and  ran  rather  than  walked  towards  Avenue 
Montsouris.  Jean  ran  until  he  reached  the  corner, 
then  cautiously  peeped  around  it.  Had  he  not  done  so 
he  would  have  come  upon  her,  for  she  had  stopped 
within  two  metres  and  fumbled  nervously  with  a  pack- 
age. He  could  hear  her  panting  and  murmuring  in 
her  deep  voice.  She  tore  the  string  from  the  package 
with  her  teeth  and  threw  the  paper  wrapper  on  the 
ground. 

It  was  a  bottle  of  bluish  liquid. 

His  heart  stood  still  as  he  saw  it;  his  legs  almost 
failed  him.  If  he  had  seen  the  intended  victim  of  this 
diabolical  design  approaching  at  that  moment  he  felt 
that  he  would  scarcely  have  the  strength  to  cry  out 
in  warning,  so  overwhelmed  was  he  with  the  horror 
of  it. 

What  should  he  do  ?    Would  they  come  this  way,  or 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  177 

by  Montsouris?  He  might  fall  upon  her  suddenly, — 
overpower  her  where  she  stood ! 

Jean  softly  peeped  once  more  around  the  angle  of 
the  wall.  She  was  trying  to  extract  the  cork  from  the 
bottle  with  a  pair  of  tiny  scissors,  but,  being  half  fran- 
tic with  haste  and  passion,  she  had  only  broken  one 
point  after  the  other. 

A  sweet  and  silvery  laugh  behind  him  sent  his  heart 
into  his  throat.  It  was  Lerouge  and  ^tlle.  Remy 
coming  leisurely  along  the  Rue  Halle.  It  was  now 
or 

But  a  second  glance  over  his  shoulder  showed  that 
they  had  turned  down  the  narrow  Rue  Dareau.  Made- 
leine had  made  a  mistake. 

Almost  at  the  same  instant  a  piercing  shriek  of 
agony  burst  upon  the  night.  The  scream  seemed  to 
split  his  ears,  so  near  was  it,  so  deep  the  pain  and  terror 
of  it. 

And  there  lay  the  miserable  woman  writhing  on  the 
walk,  tearing  out  great  wisps  of  her  dark  hair  in  her 
intolerable  suffering,  and  filling  the  air  with  heart- 
rending cries  of  distress. 


12 


CHAPTER   IX 

JEAN  MAROT  was  not,  as  has  been  seen,  an  extraordi- 
nary type  of  his  countrymen.  Sensitive,  sympathetic, 
impulsive,  passionate,  extreme  in  all  things,  he  em- 
bodied in  method  and  temperament  the  characteristics 
of  his  race. 

His  first  impulse  upon  realizing  what  had  befallen 
the  misguided  girl  of  Rue  Monge  was  the  impulse 
common  to  humanity.  But  as  he  flew  to  her  succor 
he  saw  others  running  from  various  directions,  at- 
tracted by  her  cries  and  moved  by  the  same  motive. 

To  be  found  there  would  not  only  be  useless  but 
dangerous, — for  the  girl  as  well  as  for  himself.  There- 
fore he  discreetly  took  to  his  heels. 

Flight  at  such  a  moment  is  confession  of  guilt.  So 
it  followed  quite  naturally  that  a  comprehension  of 
what  had  happened  sent  a  considerable  portion  of  the 
first-comers  after  the  fleeing  man. 

"  Assassin !" 

"Vitrioleur!" 

"Stop  him!" 

These  are  very  inspiring  cries  with  a  clamorous 
French  mob  to  howl  them.  To  be  caught  under  such 
circumstances  is  to  run  imminent  risk  of  summary 
punishment.  And  the  vitriol-thrower  is  not  an  un- 
common feature  of  Parisian  criminal  life ;  there  would 
be  little  hesitation  where  one  is  caught,  as  it  were, 
red-handed. 

Jean  ran  these  possibilities  through  his  mind  as  he 
dashed  down  a  side  street  into  the  Avenue  Montsouris. 
Fear  did  not  exactly  lend  him  wings,  but  it  certainly 
178 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  179 

did  not  retard  his  flight.  And  he  had  the  additional 
advantage  that  he  was  not  yelling  at  every  jump  and 
lost  no  time  in  false  direction.  He  doubled  by  way  of 
Rue  Dareau,  cut  into  Rue  de  la  Tombe-Issoire  over 
the  net-work  of  railway  tracks,  and  then  dropped  into 
a  walk.  But  not  so  soon  that  he  escaped  the  observa- 
tion of  a  police  agent  standing  in  the  shadow  in  the 
next  narrow  turning  towards  the  railway  station.  The 
officer  heard  his  panting  breath  long  before  Jean  got 
near  him,  and  rightly  conjectured  that  the  student  was 
running  away  from  something.  To  detain  him  for  an 
explanation  was  an  obvious  duty. 

"  Well,  now !  Monsieur  seems  to  be  in  a  hurry," 
said  he,  as  he  suddenly  stepped  in  front  of  the  fugi- 
tive. 

This  official  apparition  would  have  startled  even  a 
man  who  was  not  in  a  hurry,  but  Jean  quickly  recov- 
ered his  self-possession. 

"  Yes,  monsieur ;  I  go  for  a  doctor.    A  sick " 

"  Pardon !  but  you  have  just  passed  the  hospital. 
That  won't  do,  young  man !" 

The  agent  made  a  gesture  to  seize  his  suspect,  but 
at  that  moment  Jean  saw  two  other  agents  in  the  dis- 
tance walking  rapidly  to  join  their  comrade.  He 
upper-cut  the  man  sharply,  catching  him  squarely  on 
the  point  of  the  chin  and  sending  him  to  grass  with  a 
mangled  and  bleeding  tongue. 

There  appeared  to  be  no  help  for  it,  but  the  young 
man  now  had  two  fresh  pursuers.  At  any  rate,  he  was 
free.  It  would  be  to  his  shame,  he  thought,  if  he  could 
not  distance  two  men  in  heavy  cowhide  boots,  encum- 
bered with  cloaks  and  sabres.  So  he  started  down  the 


i8o  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

Rue  de  la  Tombe-Issoire  with  a  lead  of  some  two  hun- 
dred yards.  He  saw  lights  and  a  crowd  and  heard 
music  in,  the  Place  St.  Jacques,  and  knew  that  he  was 
saved. 

The  Place  St.  Jacques  was  en  fete.  A  band-stand 
occupied  the  spot  long  sacred  to  the  guillotine,  up  to 
its  last  removal  to  La  Roquette.  The  immediate  neigh- 
borhood of  Place  St.  Jacques  would  have  preferred  the 
guillotine  and  an  occasional  execution  as  a  holiday  en- 
joyment, but  next  to  witnessing  the  sanguinary  opera- 
tion of  the  "  national  razor,"  a  dance  was  the  popular 
idea  of  amusement.  And  the  Parisian  populace  must 
be  amused.  The  government  considers  that  a  part  of 
its  duty,  and  encourages  the  "  bal  du  carrefour"  by 
the  erection  of  stands  and  providing  music  at  the  gen- 
eral expense.  It  was  the  saturnine  humor  of  Place  St. 
Jacques  to  dance  where  men  lost  their  heads.  How- 
ever, it  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  street  crossing  in 
Paris  big  enough  to  dance  in  that  had  not  been  through 
the  centuries  soaked  with  human  blood. 

It  was  a  little  fresher  in  Place  St.  Jacques,  that  was 
all. 

The  band-stand  being  on  the  exact  place  marked  in 
the  stone  pavement  for  the  guillotine,  it  gave  a  sort  of 
peculiar  piquancy  to  the  occasion.  While  the  proprie- 
tors of  the  adjacent  wine-shops  and  "  zincs"  grumbled 
at  the  new  order  of  things,  the  young  people  were 
making  the  best  of  Mardi  Gras  in  hilarious  fashion. 

Though  Place  St.  Jacques  presented  a  lively  scene 
beneath  its  scattered  lights,  it  was  one  common  enough 
to  Jean  Marot,  who  now  only  saw  in  the  romping 
crowd  and  spectators  the  means  of  shaking  off  his 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  181 

police  pursuers.  Among  the  hundred  dancers  he  made 
his  way  to  the  most  compact  body  of  lookers-on,  where 
the  indications  were  that  something  unusually  interest- 
ing was  in  progress.  Here  the  blown  condition  of  a 
student  would  not  be  noticed. 

Yells  of  delight  from  those  in  his  immediate  vicin- 
ity awoke  his  curiosity  to  see  what  was  the  particular 
attraction.  At  the  end  of  the  figure  this  expression 
grew  enthusiastic. 

"  Bravo !  bravo !"  came  in  chorus. 

"  Tres  bien !  tres  bien !" 

"  It  is  well  done,  that !" 

"  Yes, — it  is  the  Savatiere !" 

Jean  was  startled  for  the  instant,  since  it  brought 
vividly  back  to  him  the  beginning  of  his  bitter  day. 

So  it  was  Mile.  Fouchette. 

She  made,  with  another  girl  of  her  set,  a  part  of  a 
quadrille,  and  the  pair  were  showing  off  the  agile  ac- 
complishments of  the  semi-professionals  of  the  Bul- 
lier  and  Moulin  Rouge.  These  consisted  of  kicking  off 
the  nearest  hats,  doing  the  split,  the  guitar  act,  the 
pointed  arch,  and  similar  fantasies.  Having  forced 
his  way  in,  Jean  was  instantly  recognized  by  Mile. 
Fouchette,  who  shook  the  confetti  out  of  her  blonde 
hair  at  every  pose.  Then,  as  she  executed  a  pigeon- 
wing  on  his  corner,  she  whispered, — 

"  Hold,  Monsieur  Jean, — wait  one  moment !" 

"  Will  monsieur  be  good  enough  to  take  my  place 
for  the  last  figure?" 

Her  partner,  a  thin,  serious-looking  young  man,  had 
approached  Jean  hat  in  hand  and  addressed  him  with 
courtly  politeness. 


1 82  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

Jean  protested  with  equal  politeness, — yet  the  offer 
served  his  turn  admirably, — no!  no! — and  the  made- 
moiselle, monsieur  ? 

"  Come,  then !"  cried  that  damsel,  as  the  last  figure 
began,  and  she  seized  Jean  by  the  arm  and  half  swung 
him  into  position. 

The  polite  monsieur  immediately  disappeared  in  the 
crowd. 

The  French  are  born  dancers.  There  are  young 
Frenchmen  here  who  would  be  the  admiration  of  the 
ballet-master.  Frenchmen  dance  for  the  pure  love  of 
motion.  They  prefer  an  agile  partner  of  the  softer 
sex,  but  it  is  not  essential, — they  will  dance  with 
each  other,  or  even  alone,  and  on  the  pavements  of 
Paris  as  well  as  on  the  waxed  floor  of  a  ball-room. 

Jean  Marot  was,  like  many  students  of  the  Quartier 
Latin,  not  only  a  lover  of  Terpsichore,  but  proficient 
in  the  art  of  using  his  legs  for  something  more  agree- 
able than  running.  There  were  difficult  steps  and  acro- 
batic feats  introduced  by  Mile.  Fouchette  which  he 
could  execute  quite  as  easily  and  gracefully.  And  thus 
it  happened  that  the  young  man  who  three  minutes 
before  had  been  fleeing  the  police  was  now  swept  away 
into  the  general  frivolity  of  Place  St.  Jacques.  In 
fact,  he  had  already  absolutely  forgotten  that  he  had 
come  there  a  fugitive. 

Mile.  Fouchette  had  just  joyously  challenged  him  to 
make  the  "  arc  aux  pieds"  with  her, — which  is  to  pose 
foot  against  foot  in  midair  while  the  other  dancers  pass 
beneath, — when  Jean  noticed  a  keen-eyed  police  agent 
looking  at  him  attentively. 

"  Look  out !"  exclaimed  Mile.  Fouchette,  impatiently, 


SHE   SEIZED  JEAN    BY   THE   ARM 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  183 

and  up  went  his  foot  against  the  neat  little  boot,  and 
the  other  six  passed  merrily  beneath. 

When  he  had  finished  the  figure  there  were  three 
agents,  who  whispered  together  earnestly;  but  they 
made  no  effort  to  molest  him.  His  alibi  stood. 

Nevertheless  the  police  agents  openly  followed  the 
couple  as  they  walked  down  the  Rue  St.  Jacques.  He 
saw  there  was  no  attempt  at  concealment. 

"  How,  then,  monsieur !"  cried  the  girl,  banteringly ; 
"  still  thinking  of  Madeleine  ?" 

Jean  shivered.    Poor  Madeleine! 

"  What  a  fool  a  girl  is  to  run  after  a  man  who  doesn't 
care  for  her !" 

"  And  when  a  man  runs  after  a  girl  who  doesn't  care 
for  him?"  he  asked,  half  seriously. 

"  Oh,  then  he's  worse  than  a  fool  woman, — he's  a 
man,  monsieur." 

They  reached  her  neighborhood. 

"  Come  up,  monsieur,  will  you  ?  It  is  but  a  poor  hos- 
pitality I  can  offer,  but  an  easy-chair  and  a  pipe  are  the 
same  everywhere,  n'est-ce  pas  ?" 

"  Good !"  said  he.  "  I'll  accept  it  with  all  my  heart, 
mademoiselle." 

Jean  had  again  noted  the  police  agents,  and  he  men- 
tally concluded  to  let  them  wait  a  bit.  Besides,  he  was 
very  tired. 

When  Mile.  Fouchette  had  arranged  her  shaded 
lamp,  drawn  up  the  easy-chair  and  settled  the  young 
man  in  it,  she  flung  her  hat  on  the  bed  and  bustled 
about  to  get  some  supper.  She  pulled  out  a  small 
round  oil-stove  and  proceeded  to  light  the  burners. 
He  looked  at  her  inquiringly. 


184  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  It  is  Poupon,"  said  she. 

"Oh!  it's  Poupon,  is  it?" 

"  Yes.    It's  a  darling,  isn't  she  ?" 

"  It_she— is." 

"  You  see,  when  I  want  a  cup  of  tea,  there !" 

She  removed  the  ornamental  top  with  a  flourish. 
Under  it  was  a  single  griddle.  Mile.  Fouchette  re- 
garded the  domestic  machine  with  great  complacency, 
her  blonde  head  prettily  cocked  on  one  side. 

"  It  certainly  is  convenient,"  said  Jean,  feeling  that 
some  comment  was  demanded  of  him. 

"  When  I  cook  I  put  it  in  the  chimney." 

"  But  you  have  other  fire  in  winter  ?" 

"  Fire  ?  Never !  Wood  is  too  dea*, — and  then, 
really,  one  goes  to  the  cafes  every  night,  and  to  the 
studios  every  day.  They  roast  one  at  the  studios,  be- 
cause of  the  models." 

"Oh!" 

"  Yes,  monsieur,"  she  went  on.  "  Now,  Poupon  is 
most  generally  a  warm-hearted  little  thing,  and  then 
one  can  go  to  bed,  in  a  pinch.  And  I  can  have  tea,  or 
coffee,  or  hot  wine.  Do  you  like  hot  wine,  monsieur? 
With  a  bit  of 'lemon  it  is  very  good.  And  look  here," 
she  continued  rapidly,  without  giving  him  time  to 
say  anything,  "  it  is  quite  snug  and  comfortable,  is  it 
not?" 

She  had  thrown  open  a  door  next  to  the  mantel  and 
proudly  exploited  a  cupboard  containing  various  bits 
of  china  and  glassware.  The  cupboard  was  in  the  wall 
and  closed  flush  with  the  latter,  the  door  being  cov- 
ered with  the  same  paper.  There  were  a  few  cooking 
utensils  below. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  185 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure,  mademoiselle,  it  is  all  very  nice 
indeed,"  said  he,  "  but — but  have  you  got  a  bit  to  eat 
anywhere  about  the  place  ?" 

"  Oh,  pardon,  monsieur !  Oh,  yes !  Have  we  any- 
thing to  eat,  Poupon  ?  Monsieur  shall  see." 

She  pinned  up  her  skirt  in  a  business-like  manner, 
grabbed  the  little  oil-stove,  and  placed  it  in  the  fire- 
place. 

Jean  watched  her  mechanically  without  thinking  of 
her.  He  heard  her  without  comprehending  clearly 
what  she  said.  And  yet,  somehow,  he  seemed  to  lean 
upon  her  as  something  tangible,  something  to  keep  his 
mind  from  sinking  into  its  recent  despondency. 

"  Tiens !  but,  mademoiselle,"  he  cried,  starting  up 
all  at  once,  "  you  are  not  going  to  try  to  cook  on  that 
thing !" 

"  What  ?  Hear  him,  then,  Poupon,  cherie !  To  be 
called 'that  thing!'  Oh!" 

Mile.  Fouchette  affected  great  indignation  on  the 
part  of  herself  and  domestic  friend, — the  worst  that 
could  be  said  of  which  friend  was  that  it  emitted  a  bad 
odor  of  a  Pennsylvania  product, — but  it  did  not  inter- 
fere with  her  act  of  successfully  rolling  a  promising 
omelette.  She  had  already  prettily  arranged  the  table 
for  two,  on  which  were  temptingly  displayed  a  litre  of 
Bordeaux,  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  a  dish  of  olives. 

"  But " 

"  Now,  don't  say  a  word,  monsieur,  or  I'll  drop 
something." 

"  You  need  not  have  cooked  anything,"  he  protested. 
"  A  bit  of  bread  and  wine  would  have " 

"  Poor  Poupon !     So  monsieur  thinks  you  are  pas 


i86  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

bon!  Perhaps  monsieur  thinks  you  and  I  don't  eat 
up  here,  eh  ?  Non  ?  Monsieur  is  in  love " 

"Mademoiselle!" 

"  Oh,  I  talk  to  Poupon,  whom  you  despise, — and — 
now,  the  omelette,  monsieur.  Let  me  help  you." 

They  had  drawn  chairs  to  the  table,  and  the  girl 
poured  two  glasses  of  wine.  She  watched  him  drain 
his  glass  and  then  refilled  it,  finally  observing,  with  a 
smile, — 

"  It  can't  be  Madeleine " 

"  Oh !  to  the  devil  with "  but  he  checked  him- 
self by  the  sudden  recollection  of  the  terrible  misfor- 
tune that  had  overtaken  Madeleine. 

Mile.  Fouchette  shrugged  her  shoulders,  but  she  lost 
no  point  of  his  confusion. 

"  Is  it  necessary,  then,"  he  asked,  cynically,  "  that  I 
should  be  in  love  with  some  one?"  He  laughed,  but 
his  merriment  did  not  deceive  her. 

"  Ah !  Anybody  can  see,  monsieur,  you  love  or  you 
hate — one." 

"  Both,  perhaps,"  he  suggested.  "  For  instance,  I 
love  your  omelette  and  I  hate  your  questions." 

"  You  hate  Monsieur  Lerouge,  therefore  you  love 
where  he  is  concerned." 

He  was  silent.  It  was  evident  that  he  did  not  care 
to  discuss  his  private  affairs  with  Mile.  Fouchette. 

The  girl  was  quick  to  see  this  and  changed  the  con- 
versation to  politics.  But  Jean  had  no  mind  for  this 
either.  He  began  to  grow  impatient,  when  she  opened 
a  box  on  the  mantel  and  showed  him  an  assortment  of 
pipes. 

"  Oho !    You  keep  a  petit  tabac?" 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  187 

"  One  has  some  friends,  monsieur." 

"  A  good  many,  I  should  judge, — each  of  whom 
leaves  a  pipe,  indicating  an  early  and  regular  return." 

"  I  don't  find  yours  here  yet,  monsieur,"  she  replied, 
demurely. 

"  But  you  will,"  said  he.  "  And  I'll  come  up  and 
smoke  it  occasionally,  if  you'll  let  me." 

"  With  pleasure,  monsieur,  even  if  you  had  not 
saved  my  life " 

"  There !  Stop  that,  now.  Let  us  never  speak  of 
that,  mademoiselle.  You  got  me  into  a  scrape  and  got 
me  out  again,  so  we  are  quits." 

"  But " 

"  Say  no  more  about  it,  mademoiselle." 

"  I  may  think  about  it,  I  suppose,"  she  suggested, 
with  affected  satire. 

"  There, — tell  me  about  the  pipes." 

"  Oh,  yes.  Well,  you  know  how  men  hate  to  part 
with  old  pipes?  And  they  are,  therefore,  my  valuable 
presents,  monsieur." 

"  Truly !    I  never  thought  of  that." 

"No?" 

"And  the  pictures?" 

"  Scraps  from  the  studios." 

He  got  up  and  examined  the  sketches  on  the  walls. 
They  were  from  pen,  pencil,  and  brush,  from  as  many 
artists, — some  quite  good  and  showing  more  or  less 
budding  genius.  He  paused  some  time  before  the  head 
of  his  entertainer. 

"  It  is  very  good, — admirable !"  he  said. 

"  You  think  so,  monsieur  ?" 

"  It  is  worth  all  the  rest  together,  mademoiselle." 


1 88  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  So  much  ?    You  are  an  artist,  Monsieur  Jean  ?" 

"  Amateur, — strictly  amateur, — yet  I  know  some- 
thing of  pictures.  Now,  I  should  say  that  bit  is  worth, 
say,  one  hundred  francs." 

"  Nonsense !  The  work  of  five  minutes  of — amuse- 
ment; yes,  making  fun  of  me  one  day.  Do  you  sup- 
pose he  would  give  me  one  hundred  francs?" 

"The  highest  effects  in  art  are  often  merest  acci- 
dent, or  the  result  of  the  spirit  of  the  moment, — some 
call  it  inspiration." 

"  But  if  you  didn't  know  who  did  it,  monsieur — 

"  It  is  not  signed." 

"  N-no ;  but,  monsieur,  every  one  must  know  his 
work." 

"  Yes,  and  every  one  knows  that  some  of  it  is  bad." 

"Oh!" 

"  And  this  is " 

"  Bad  too,  monsieur,"  she  laughingly  interrupted. 
"  When  any  one  offers  me  fifty  francs  for  that  thing, 
Monsieur  Jean,  it  goes !" 

"  Then  it  is  mine,"  said  Jean. 

"  No !  You  joke,  monsieur,"  she  protested,  turning 
away. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  he,  tendering  her  a  fresh,  crisp 
billet  de  banque  for  fifty  francs.  "  Voila !  Is  that  a 
joke?" 

Mile.  Fouchette  colored  slightly  and  drew  back. 

"  Monsieur  likes  the  picture  ?" 

"  Why,  certainly.    If  I  didn't " 

"  Then  it  is  yours,  monsieur,  if  you  will  deign  to 
accept  it  as  a — present " 

"No,  no!" 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  189 

"As  a  souvenir,  monsieur." 

"  Nonsense !  I  will  not  do  it,"  he  declared.  "  Come, 
mademoiselle,  you  are  trying  to  back  out  of  your 
offer  of  a  minute  ago.  Here !  Is  it  mine  or  is  it  not  ? 
Say!" 

"  It  is  yours,  monsieur,  in  any  case,"  she  said,  in  a 
low  voice,  "  though  you  would  have  done  me  a  favor 
not  to  press  me  with  money.  Besides,  '  La  Petite 
Chatte'  is  not  worth  it." 

"  I  differ  with  you,  mademoiselle ;  I  simply  get  a 
picture  cheap." 

Which  was  true.  There  was  no  sentiment  in  his 
offer,  and  she  saw  it  as  she  carefully  folded  the  bank- 
note and  put  it  away  with  a  sigh.  It  was  a  great  deal 
of  money  for  her,  but  still 

There  was  a  great  noise  at  the  iron  knocker  below. 
This  had  been  repeated  for  the  third  time. 

"  My  friends  below  are  growing  impatient,"  he 
thought. 

Jean  had  that  inborn  hatred  of  authority  so  common 
to  many  of  his  countrymen.  It  often  begins  in  baiting 
the  police,  and  sometimes  ends  in  the  overthrow  of  the 
government. 

"  Whoever  that  is,"  observed  the  girl,  "  he  will  never 
get  in, — never !" 

"Good!"  said  Jean. 

"  He  won't  get  in,"  she  repeated,  listening.  "  Mon- 
sieur Benoit  will  never  let  anybody  in  who  makes  a 
racket  like  that." 

"  Not  even  the  police  ?" 

"  No, — he  will  not  hear  them." 

"  Oh !  ho !  ho !  ho !"  roared  Jean ;  "  not  hear  that !" 


190  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  I  mean  he  would  affect  not  to  know  that  it  was 
the  police." 

She  went  to  a  window  and  listened  at  the  shutter. 
Then,  returning  to  her  guest,  who  was  placidly 
smoking, — 

"  It  is  the  police,  sure." 

"  I  knew  it." 

"  Now,  what  do  you  suppose  the  agents  want  at  this 
hour?"  It  was  one  o'clock  by  the  little  bronze  time- 
piece on  the  mantel. 

"  Me,"  said  Jean. 

"  You !"  She  glanced  at  him  with  a  smile  of  incre- 
dulity. 

"  Yes,  petite." 

He  puffed  continuous  rings  towards  the  ceiling,  won- 
dering whether  he  had  better  explain. 

Presently  came  a  tap  at  the  door.  The  girl  hastened 
to  answer  it,  while  Jean  refilled  his  pipe  thoughtfully. 
When  she  came  back  she  was  more  excited.  She  whis- 
pered,— 

"  Monsieur  Benoit,  le  concierge,  he  wants  to  see  you, 
— he  must  let  them  in !" 

"  Well,  let  them  in !"  exclaimed  the  young  man. 

He  had  thought  of  Madeleine,  chiefly,  and  the  effect 
of  his  arrest  upon  her.  A  hearing  must  inevitably  lead 
to  her  exposure,  if  not  to  his.  But  it  was  useless  to 
endeavor  to  escape.  He  felt  that  he  was  trapped. 
Being  in  that  fix,  he  may  as  well  face  the  music. 

"  But  he  wants  to  see  you  personally,"  said  the  girl. 

Jean  went  to  the  door,  where  the  saturnine  Benoit 
stood  with  his  flaring  candle.  The  man  cautiously 
closed  the  inner  vestibule  door. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  191 

"  S-sh !  It  Is  a  souriciere,  monsieur,  as  I  suspected 
when  you  came  in  with  that  little  she-devil!  The 
agents  were  at  your  heels.  Now,  Monsieur  Lerouge, 
do  you  wish  to  escape  or  do  you " 

"  I  intend  to  remain  right  here.  There  is  no  reason 
that  I  should  become  a  fugitive." 

"  As  you  please,  monsieur,"  replied  the  concierge, 
with  an  expressive  shrug.  And  the  clack  of  his  sabots 
was  soon  heard  on  the  stone  stair. 

"  Funny,"  said  Jean,  re-entering,  "  but  he  takes  me 
for  Lerouge.  There  is  some  sort  of  understanding 
between  them.  He  would  have  aided  me  to  escape." 

"  And  why  not  have  accepted,  monsieur  ?"  asked 
Mile.  Fouchette. 

"  I  would  rather  be  a  prisoner  as  Jean  Marot  than 
escape  as  Henri  Lerouge,"  replied  the  young  man. 

"  Anyhow,"  muttered  the  girl,  "  perhaps  the  police 
have  made  the  same  mistake." 

"  I'm  afraid  not,"  said  Jean. 

Mile.  Fouchette  regarded  the  young  man  admir- 
ingly from  the  corner  of  her  eye.  He  was  so  calm 
and  resolute.  He  had  resumed  the  easy-chair  and 
pipe. 

Mile.  Fouchette  was  not  able  to  veil  her  feelings 
under  this  cloak  of  indifference.  Her  highly  nervous 
organization  was  sensibly  disturbed.  One  might  have 
easily  presumed  that  she  was  in  question  instead  of 
Jean  Marot.  She  had  hastily  cleared  the  little  table 
and  replaced  the  lamp,  when  her  unwelcome  visitors 
announced  themselves.  Mile.  Fouchette  promptly  con- 
fronted them  at  the  door. 

"Well,  gentlemen?" 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 


"  Mademoiselle,  pardon.  I'm  sorry  to  disturb  you, 
but  I  am  after  the  body  of  one  M.  Lerouge." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  go  and  get  him  ?"  snapped  the 
girl. 

"  Pardieu  !  that  is  precisely  why  we  are  here,  mon 
enfant.  He  -  " 

"  He  is  not  here." 

"  Come,  now,  that  will  not  do,  mademoiselle.  At 
least  he  was  here  a  few  moments  ago.  —  Where  is  that 
dolt  Benoit?" 

"  M.  Lerouge  is  not  here,  I  tell  you  ;  never  was  here 
in  his  life!" 

"Oh!" 

It  was  M.  Benoit,  the  concierge.  His  astonishment 
was  undoubtedly  genuine;  possibly  as  much  at  her 
brazen  denial  as  at  his  own  error  in  believing  her  a 
police  decoy. 

"  Mademoiselle  ought  to  know,"  he  added,  in  reply 
to  official  inquiry. 

"  Let  us  see,"  exclaimed  the  man,  thrusting  the  girl 
aside  and  entering  the  room.  He  was  followed  by  two 
of  his  men  and  the  concierge.  A  rear-guard  had  de- 
tained a  curious  assortment  of  half-dressed  people  on 
the  stairs. 

The  eyes  of  the  agents  fell  upon  the  young  man  with 
a  pipe  simultaneously.  Monsieur  Benoit  saw  him  also, 
and  flashed  an  indignant  look  at  the  girl.  He  had 
concluded  that  she  had  found  means  to  conceal  her 
visitor. 

"  Ah  !  Monsieur  Lerouge,"  began  the  sous-brigadier. 

"  Bah  !  you  fools  !"  sneered  Mile.  Fouchette,  "  can't 
you  see  that  it  is  not  Monsieur  Lerouge?" 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  193 

"  There !  no  more  lies,  mademoiselle.  Your  name, 
monsieur  ?" 

"  Jean  Marot." 

"  Oh !  so  it  is  Jean  Marot  ?"  said  the  officer,  mock- 
ingly, while  he  glanced  alternately  at  Mile.  Fouchette, 
at  M.  Benoit,  and  at  his  men.  "  Very  well, — I'll  take 
you  as  Jean  Marot,  then,"  he  angrily  added. 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  Jean,  now  amused  at  police  ex- 
pense, "  I  am  not  Lerouge.  There  is  said  to  be  some 
resemblance  between  us,  that  is  all." 

The  face  of  M.  Benoit  was  that  of  a  positive  man 
suddenly  overwhelmed  with  evidence  of  his  own  stu- 
pidity. Mile.  Fouchette  laughed  outright.  The  sous- 
brigadier  frowned.  One  of  his  men  spoke  up, — 

"Oho!  now  I  see " 

"  Dubat,  shut  up !" 

"  But,  mon  brigadier,"  persisted  the  man  designated, 
"  it  is  not  the  man  we  took  that  night  at  Le  Petit 
Rouge, — non !" 

"Ah!  la,  la,  la!"  put  in  Mile.  Fouchette,  growing 
tired  of  this.  "  I  know  M.  Lerouge  and  M.  Marot 
equally  well,  monsieur,  and  this  is  Marot.  He  has 
been  with  me  all  the  evening.  We  danced  in  the  Place 
St.  Jacques  and  came  directly  here;  before  that  we 
were  at  the  Cafe  du  Pantheon.  He  has  not  left 
here.  And  they  do  look  alike,  monsieur;  so  it  is 
said." 

"  That  is  very  true,"  muttered  the  concierge, — "  and 
I  have  made  the  mistake  too;  though,  to  be  sure,  I 
know  M.  Lerouge  but  slightly  and  had  never  seen  this 
man  before,  to  my  knowledge." 

Meanwhile,  the  girl  had  made  a  sign  to  the  sous- 
13 


194  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

brigadier   that   at  once   attracted  that   consequential 
man's  attention. 

"  Then,  mademoiselle,"  he  concluded,  after  a  mo- 
ment's thought,  "  you  can  give  us  the  address  of  this 
Monsieur  Lerouge?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  It  is  Montrouge,  7  Rue  Dareau, — en 
quatrieme." 

M.  Benoit  gave  the  girl  informer  a  vicious  look, 
which  had  as  much  effect  upon  her  as  water  might 
-have  on  a  duck's  back. 

Jean  did  not  require  a  note-book  and  pencil  to  fix 
this  street  and  number  in  his  own  mind.  He  turned  to 
the  sous-brigadier  as  the  latter  rose  to  take  his  de- 
parture,— 

"  Pardon,  monsieur ;  may  I  ask  what  charge  is  made 
against  Monsieur  Lerouge  that  you  thus  hunt  him 
down  in  the  middle  of  the  night  ?" 

"  It  is  very  serious,  monsieur,"  replied  the  man,  re- 
spectful enough  now ;  "  a  young  woman  has  been 
blinded  with  vitriol." 

"  Horrible !"  exclaimed  Mile.  Fouchette.  "  I  don't 
believe  Lerouge  could  have  ever  done  that!  No, 
never !" 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Jean. 

The  police  officer  merely  raised  his  eyebrows  slightly 
and  observed, — 

"  It  was  in  the  Rue  Dareau,  monsieur." 

"  And  the  woman  ?    Do  they  know " 

"  One  named  Madeleine,  mademoiselle." 

"  Madeleine !"  cried  the  girl,  with  a  white  face. 
"  Madeleine !  Mon  Dieu !  You  hear  that,  Monsieur 
Jean  ?  It  was  Madeleine !" 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  195 

"  Courage,  mademoiselle ;  Lerouge  never  did  that," 
said  Jean,  calmly.  "  It  is  a  mistake.  He  could  not  do 
that." 

"  Never !    It  is  impossible !" 

Mile.  Fouchette  wrung  her  hands  and  sought  his 
eyes  in  vain  for  some  explanation.  She  seemed  over- 
come with  terror. 

"  Parbleu !"  exclaimed  the  police  officer,  in  taking 
his  leave.  "  Mademoiselle,  there  is  nothing  impossible 
in  Paris." 


CHAPTER   X 

THE  first  instinct  of  Jean  Marot  had  been  to  kill 
Henri  Lerouge. 

Revenge  is  the  natural  heritage  of  his  race.  Re- 
venge is  taught  as  a  sacred  duty  in  the  common 
schools  of  France.  Revenge  keeps  the  fires  aglow 
under  the  boilers  of  French  patriotism.  Revenge  is 
the  first  thought  to  follow  on  the  heels  of  private  in- 
sult or  personal  injury. 

It  had  been  that  of  the  ignorant  human  animal  called 
Madeleine.  How  the  horrible  design  of  Madeleine  had 
chilled  his  blood !  He  was  sorry  for  the  unhappy  girl 
with  a  natural  sympathy ;  yet  he  would  have  torn  her 
to  pieces  had  she  successfully  carried  her  scheme  of 
revenge  into  execution. 

Jean  took  to  haunting  Montrouge  day  and  night,  in- 
variably passing  down  Rue  Dareau  and  contemplating 
No.  7,  keeping  his  eye  on  the  porte-cochere  and  the 
fourth  floor,  as  if  she  might  be  passing  in  or  out,  or 
show  herself  at  a  lighted  window.  But  he  never  saw 
her, — never  saw  Lerouge.  He  never  seemed  to  expect 
to  see  them. 

He  had  ceased  to  attend  classes.  What  were  books 
and  classes  to  him  now  ?  He  took  more  absinthe  than 
was  good  for  him. 

His  father's  friend,  Dr.  Cardiac,  visited  him,  remon- 
strated with  him,  readily  diagnosed  his  case,  then  wrote 
to  Monsieur  Marot  the  elder.  The  result  of  this  was  a 
peremptory  call  home.  To  this  summons  Jean  as 
promptly  replied.  He  refused  to  go.  An  equally 
prompt  response  told  him  he  had  no  home, — no  father, 
196 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  197 

— and  that  thenceforth  he  must  shift  for  himself, — that 
he  had  received  his  last  franc. 

Ten  days  later  he  unexpectedly  encountered  Mile. 
Fouchette  on  Boulevard  St.  Michel.  It  was  Saturday 
evening,  and  all  the  student  world  was  abroad.  But 
perhaps  of  that  world  none  was  more  miserable 'than 
Jean  Marot. 

"  Ah !  Then  it  is  really  you,  monsieur  ?"  There 
was  a  perceptible  coldness  in  her  greeting.  However, 
his  condition  was  apparent.  The  sharp  blue  eyes  had 
taken  his  measure  at  a  glance.  She  interrupted  his 
polite  reply. 

"  La !  la !  la !  Then  you  are  in  trouble.  You  young 
men  are  always  in  trouble.  When  it  isn't  one  thing  it 
is  another." 

"  It  is  both  this  time,  I'm  afraid,"  he  said,  smiling 
at  the  heavy  philosophy  from  such  a  light  source. 

They  crossed  over  and  walked  along  the  wall  of  the 
ancient  College  d'Harcourt,  where  there  were  fewer 
people.  The  dark  circles  under  his  handsome  eyes 
seemed  to  soften  her  still  further. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you,  monsieur." 

"  Thank  you,  mademoiselle." 

"  And  poor  Madeleine " 

"  You  have  seen  her,  then  ?" 

"Oh,  of  course!" 

"  Of  course,"  he  repeated. 

"  But,  monsieur,  you  may  not  know  that  you  were 
suspected  of " 

"  Go  on,"  seeing  her  hesitation.  "  Of  having  some- 
thing to  do  with  it  ?" 

"  Precisely." 


198  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  I  knew  that." 

To  avoid  the  crowd  and  curious  comment,  Jean 
turned  into  the  Luxembourg  garden. 

"  Well,"  he  resumed,  "  you  said  I  was  suspected  first 
by  the  police,  then " 

"  By  me,"  she  said,  promptly. 

"By  you!" 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

"And  what,  my  dear  mademoiselle,  had  I  done  to 
merit  so  distinguished  an  honor?" 

"  Dear  me !  monsieur,  it  was  chiefly  what  you  hadn't 
done;  and  then  the  circumstantial  evidence,  you  must 
confess,  was  strong." 

"  I  realized  that,  also  that  in  France  it  is  not  easy 
to  get  out  of  prison,  once  in  it,  innocent  or  guilty." 

"  So  you  kept  out.  Very  wisely,  monsieur.  But  you 
know  the  papers  next  morning  spoke  of  Madeleine's 
lover,  and  talked  of  the  lost  clue  of  the  Place  St. 
Jacques,  where  we  met." 

"  It  certainly  would  have  been  suspicious  under  some 
circumstances,"  he  admitted.  "  Now,  if  I  had  been  her 
lover,  for  instance " 

"  There !  I  went  to  the  hospital.  And  don't  you 
know,  she  would  not  betray  the  man  who  did  it,  though 
she  suffered  horribly.  She  will  lose  one  of  her  eyes, 
poor  girl !" 

"  Great  heavens !    What  a  misfortune !" 

"Yes!" 

"  And  she  would  not  betray  her  assailant  ?" 

"  Not  a  word !"  exclaimed  Mile.  Fouchette.  "  I 
never  believed  Madeleine  could  rise  to  that." 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Jean. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  199 

"  And  the  police  did  worry  that  Lerouge,"  continued 
the  girl. 

"Oh,  they  did?" 

"  Yes ;  but  he  easily  proved  that  he  was  not  only  not 
Madeleine's  lover,  but  that  he  was  out  somewhere  with 
his— his "  , 

"  Mistress,  eh  ?"  he  said,  bitterly.  "  Why  not  say 
it?" 

"  With  his  friend,"  she  added,  her  eyes  on  the 
ground. 

"Ugh!" 

"  But  you,  monsieur, — you  have  not  yet  told  me 
your  troubles.  Your  love  goes  badly,  I  suppose,  eh?" 

"  Always." 

"  It  is  the  same  old  thing.  I  wonder  how  it  is  to 
be  loved  thus.  Very  nice,  no  doubt." 

"  And  has  no  one  ever  loved  you,  mademoiselle  ?"  he 
asked. 

"Non!" 

"  You  astonish  me !  And  the  world  is  so  full  of 
lovers,  too." 

"  I  mean  no  man." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?" 

"  Very  sure,  monsieur.  Could  one  be  loved  like  that 
and  not  know  it  ?" 

"  That  is  what  I  ask  myself  every  day."  He  said 
this  to  himself  rather  than  to  his  wondering  companion. 

"  Why,  monsieur ! " 

"  But  there  are  other  things  just  now, — to-day,"  he 
said,  abruptly  changing  the  subject;  "and  the  worst 
thing " 

"  The  worst  thing  is  money,"  she  interrupted.     "  I 


200  ,     MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

have  had  'the  worst  thing.'  It  happens  every  now 
and  then.  You  need  not  hesitate." 

"  Worse  yet,"  he  continued,  smiling  in  spite  of  him- 
self at  her  conclusion. 

"  I  can  tell  it  in  advance.  It  is  the  old  story.  Your 
love  is  not  reciprocated, — you  neglect  your  classes, — 
you  fail  in  the  exams, — you  take  to  absinthe.  Ah,  qa !" 

"  Still  worse,  mon  enfant." 

"Ah!    You  play " 

"  No.  I  never  play.  You  are  wrong  only  that  once, 
mademoiselle." 

He  told  her  the  truth.  And  she  listened  with  the 
sage  air  of  one  who  knows  all  about  it  and  was  ready 
with  her  decision. 

"  Monsieur  Marot," — she  paused  a  second, — "  you 
think  I'm  a  bad  girl " 


Oh,  don't  be  too  sure  of  that.    I- 


"  Ah,  93. !"  impatiently  waving  his  politeness  aside ; 
"  but  I  owe  you  much,  and  I  would  do  you  a  service  if 
possible." 

"  I  thank  you,  mademoiselle." 

"  You  think  it  impossible  ?  Perhaps.  I  am  nothing. 
I  am  only  a  poor  little  woman,  monsieur, — alone  in  the 
world.  But  I  know  this  world, — I  have  wrestled  with  it. 
I  have  had  hard  falls, — I  got  up  again.  Therefore  my 
experience  has  been  bitter ;  but  still  it  is  experience." 

"  Sad  experience,  doubtless." 

"  Yes ;  and  it  ought  to  have  taught  me  something, 
even  if  I  were  the  most  stupid  and  vicious,  eh  ?" 

"  Surely,"  he  said. 

"  And  my  counsel  ought  to  have  some  value  in  your 
eyes?" 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  201 

"  Why,  yes ;   certainly,  mademoiselle." 

"  At  least  it  is  disinterested " 

"Sure!" 

"Go  home!" 

"  But " 

She  interrupted  him  sharply,  nervously  grasping  his 
passive  hand. 

"  Go  home,  Monsieur  Jean, — at  once !" 

She  trembled,  and  her  voice  grew  low  and  softly 
sweet,  and  almost  pleading. 

"  Go  home,  Monsieur  Jean !  Leave  all  of  this  be- 
hind,— it  is  ruin !" 

"  Never !  I  cannot  do  that,  mademoiselle.  Besides, 
it  is  too  late, — it  is  impossible !  I  have  no  home,  now. 
Never!" 

"There!" 

Mile.  Fouchette  rose  abruptly,  shrugging  her  nar- 
row shoulders  with  the  air  of  having  done  what  she 
could  and  washing  her  hands  of  the  consequences.  Her 
smile  of  half  pity,  half  contempt,  for  the  weakness  of  a 
strong  man  clearly  indicated  that  she  had  expected 
nothing  and  was  not  disappointed.  As  he  still  remained 
absorbed  in  his  own  miserable  thoughts,  she  returned 
to  the  attack  in  a  lively  manner. 

"  So  that  is  out  of  the  way,"  she  said.  "  Now  let  us 
see  what  you  are  going  to  do.  You  probably  have 
friends?" 

"  A  few." 

"  Do  not  trust  to  friends,  monsieur ;  it  will  spare  you 
the  humiliation  of  finding  them  out.  What  are  your 
resources  ?" 

"  I  have  none,"  he  replied. 


202  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  How  much  money  have  you  ?" 

"Nothing!" 

"  Ah,  monsieur," — she  now  sat  down  again,  visibly 
softened, — "  if  you  will  come  and  dine  with  me  and 
petite  Poupon  we  can  talk  it  all  over  at  leisure,  n'est-ce 
pas?  I  can  make  a  bien  joli  pot-au-feu  for  a  franc, — 
which  means  soup,  meat,  and  vegetables ;  and  I  know 
a  petite  marchande  de  vins  where  one  can  get  a  litre  of 
Bordeaux  for  cinquante,  which,  with  a  salade  at  two 
sous  and  cheese  for  two  more,  will  round  out  a  very 
good  dinner  for  two.  Ah !  le  voila !" 

She  wound  up  her  rapid  summary  of  culinary  de- 
lights with  the  charming  eagerness  of  a  child,  bring- 
ing forth  from  the  folds  of  her  dress  a  small  purse, 
through  the  netting  of  which  glistened  some  silver 
coin,  and  causing  it  to  chink  triumphantly. 

Jean  Marot,  suddenly  lifted  out  of  himself  by  this 
impulsive  good-nature,  was  at  first  embarrassed,  then 
stupefied.  He  was  unable  to  utter  a  word.  He  was 
ashamed  of  his  own  weakness;  he  was  overwhelmed 
by  the  sense  of  her  impetuous  good-will  and  practical 
human  sympathy.  He  silently  pressed  the  thin  hand 
which  had  unconsciously  crept  into  his. 

"  No,  it  is  nothing,"  she  said,  lightly,  withdrawing 
her  hand.  "  I  have  plenty  to-day, — you  will  have  it 
some  other  day;  and  then  you  can  give  me  a  petit 
souper,  monsieur,  n'est-ce  pas?" 

"  Very  well.  On  that  condition  I  will  accept  your 
invitation,  mademoiselle.  We  will  dine  with  petite 
Poupon." 

He  had  not  the  heart  to  tell  her  that  his  "  nothing" 
meant  a  few  hundred  francs  to  his  credit  and  a  few 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  203 

louis  in  his  pocket  at  that  moment, — more  than  she  had 
ever  possessed  at  any  one  time  in  her  life. 

As  it  was,  she  walked  along  by  his  side  with  that 
feeling  of  camaraderie  experienced  by  those  in  the 
same  run  of  luck  as  to  the  world's  goods,  and  with 
that  buoyancy  of  spirit  which  attends  a  good  action. 
The  few  francs  and  odd  sous  in  the  little  purse  were 
abundant  for  to-day, — the  morrow  could  take  care  of 
itself. 

They  turned  up  the  narrow  Rue  Royer-Collard, 
where  she  stopped  for  the  litre  of  Bordeaux,  respond- 
ing gayly  to  the  wayside  queries  and  comments. 
Reaching  the  Rue  St.  Jacques,  there  were  the  salad 
and  the  cheese  to  add  to  the  necessary  part  of  the 
French  meal ;  and  the  bit  of  beef  and  the  inevitable 
onions  brought  up  the  rear  of  purchases. 

"  I  have  some  potatoes  and  carrots,"  she  said,  re- 
flectively,— "  so  much  saved.  Let  us  see.  It  is  not 
so  bad, — quatre-vingt-cinq,  dix,  cinquante, — un  franc 
quarante-cinq." 

She  made  the  calculation  as  they  went  up  the  worn 
stairway  after  the  passage  of  the  tunnel. 

"  Not  half  bad,"  said  he,  compelled  to  admire  her 
cleverness. 

Reaching  her  chamber,  she  deposited  the  entire  even- 
ing investment  on  the  hearth,  proceeding  to  the  pre- 
liminary features  of  preparation.  She  threw  her  hat 
on  the  bed,  then  pulled  off  the  light  bolero  and  sent 
it  after  the  hat,  and  then  she  began  slipping  out  of 
her  skirt  by  suddenly  letting  it  fall  in  a  ring  about 
her  feet. 

"Oh!"   said  Jean. 


204  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  Excuse  me,  will  you  ?  I  can't  risk  my  pretty  skirt 
for  appearances.  You  won't  mind,  monsieur?  Non!" 

"  That's  right,"  he  said,—"  a  skirt  is  only  a  skirt." 

He  watched  her  with  a  half-amused  expression  as 
she  flitted  nervously  about,  more  'doll-like  than  ever 
she  was,  in  the  short  yellow  silken  petticoat  with  its 
terminating  ruffles,  or  cheap  lace  balayeuse,  her  blonde 
hair  loosely  drooping  over  her  ears  and  caught  up 
behind  in  the  prevailing  fashion  of  the  quarter.  She 
kept  up  a  continual  chatter  as  she  opened  drawers, 
prepared  the  potatoes,  and  arranged  the  little  table. 

Poupon  was  already  singing  in  the  chimney-place. 
Her  conversation,  by  habit,  was  mostly  directed  to  her 
little  oil-stove,  as  if  it  were  a  sentient  thing,  some- 
thing to  be  encouraged  by  flattery  and  restrained  by 
reproach.  It  was  the  camaraderie  of  loneliness. 

But  to  Jean,  who  was  quick  to  fall  back  into  his 
own  reveries,  her  voice  died  away  into  incomprehen- 
sible jargon.  Once  he  glanced  at  the  sketch  still  on 
the  wall  and  thought  of  her  purring  over  her  work 
like  a  satisfied  cat,  then  the  next  instant  again  for- 
got her.  Now  and  then  she  bestowed  a  keen  glance 
on  him  or  a  passing  word,  but  left  him  no  time  to 
answer  or  to  formulate  any  distinct  idea  as  to  what 
it  was  about.  Suddenly  she  pounced  upon  him 
with, — 

"Monsieur  Marot?'" 

"Well?" 

"  You  still  live " 

"  Faubourg  St.  Honore." 

"  Mon  Dieu !    How  foolish !" 

"  Yes, — now,"  he  admitted. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE    .  205 

"  You  must  change.    What  rent  do  you  pay  ?" 

"  Fourteen  hundred " 

"Dame!    And  the  lease?" 

"  Two  years  yet  to  run,"  said  he. 

"  Peste !    What  a  bother !" 

"  But  the  rent  is  paid." 

"  Oh,  very  well.  It  can  be  sold.  And  the  furni- 
ture?" 

"  Mine." 

"Good!     How  much?" 

"  It  cost  about  three  thousand  francs." 

"  It's  a  fortune,  monsieur,"  she  exclaimed,  with 
sparkling  eyes.  "  And  here  I  thought  you  were — 
puree !" 

"Broke?" 

"  Yes, — that  you  had  nothing." 

"  It  is  not  much  to  me,  who " 

"  No ;  I  understand  that.  I  once  read  of  a  rich 
American  who  committed  suicide  because  he  was  sud- 
denly reduced  to  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
francs.  That  was  very  drole,  was  it  not?" 

"  To  most  people,  yes ;  but  it  would  not  be  funny 
for  one  who  had  been  accustomed  to  twice  or  five  times 
that  much  every  year." 

"  No, — I  forgot,"  she  said,  reflectively,  "  about  your 
affairs,  monsieur.  It  is  very  simple." 

"Is  it?"    He  laughed  lugubriously. 

"  You  simply  accept  conditions.  You  give  up  your 
present  mode  of  living ;  you  sell  your  lease  and  furni- 
ture ;  you  take  a  small  place  here  somewhere,  get  only 
what  is  necessary,  then  find  something  to  do.  Why, 
you  will  be  independent, — rich!" 


206  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  Only,  you  omit  one  thing  in  the  calculation,  made- 
moiselle." 

She  divined  at  once  what  that  was. 

"  One  must  arrange  for  the  stomach  before  talking 
about  love.  And  how,  then,  is  a  young  man  to  pro- 
vide for  a  girl  when  he  can't  provide  for  himself? 
Let  the  girl  alone  until  you  begin  to  see  the  way. 
Don't  be  ridiculous,  Monsieur  Jean.  No  woman  can 
love  a  man  who  is  ridiculous.  Jamais!" 

Love  is  not  exactly  a  synonyme  for  Reason.  To 
be  in  love  is  in  a  measure  to  part  company  with  the 
power  of  ratiocination.  Nevertheless,  Jean  saw  in  an 
absent-minded  way  that  Mile.  Fouchette,  for  whom 
he  had  never  entertained  even  that  casual  respect  ac- 
corded by  the  Anglo-Saxon  to  womanhood  in  general, 
spoke  the  words  of  sense  and  soberness.  His  intol- 
erant nature,  that  would  never  have  brooked  such 
freedom  from  a  friend,  allowed  everything  from  one 
who  was  too  insignificant  to  excite  resentment  or  even 
reply.  In  the  same  fashion  Jean  was  touched  by  the 
exhibition  of  human  interest  and  womanly  sympathy 
in  this  waif  of  civilization.  And  he  was  of  too  gentle 
a  heart  not  to  meet  it  with  a  show  of  appreciation. 
It  gave  her  pleasure  and  did  not  hurt  him.  The  fact 
that  she  was  probably  abandoned  and  vicious  in  no 
wise  lessened  this  consideration, — possibly  increased 
his  confidence  in  her  disinterested  counsel. 

In  Paris  one  elbows  this  species  every  day, — in  the 
Quartier  Latin  young  Frenchmen  come  in  contact  with 
it  every  night, — and  without  that  sense  of  self-abase- 
ment or  disgust  evoked  by  similar  association  in  the 
United  States.  The  line  of  demarcation  that  separates 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  207 

respectability  from  shame  is  not  rigidly  drawn  in 
Paris;  in  the  Quartier  Latin,  where  the  youth  of 
France  and,  to  a  considerable  extent,  of  the  whole 
world  are  prepared  for  earth  and  heaven,  it  cannot 
be  said  to  be  drawn  at  all. 

By  his  misfortunes  Jean  Marot  had  unexpectedly 
fallen  within  her  reach.  With  her  natural  spirit  of 
domination  she  had  at  once  appropriated  the  position 
of  mentor  and  manager.  The  precocious  worldliness 
of  her  mentality  amused  while  it  sometimes  astonished 
him.  This  comparatively  ignorant  girl  of  eighteen 
had  no  hesitation  in  guiding  the  man  of  more  mature 
years,  and  succeeded  through  her  naivete  rather  than 
by  force  of  character.  The  weakest  of  women  can 
dominate  the  strongest  of  men. 

"  Doctors  never  prescribe  for  themselves,"  she  said, 
by  way  of  justifying  her  interest  in  him.  "  Is  it  not 
so,  Monsieur  Jean?" 

"  No ;  but  they  call  in  somebody  of  their  own  pro- 
fession," he  replied. 

"  Not  if  he  had  the  same  disease,  surely !"  she  re- 
torted. 

"  So  you  think  love  a  disease  ?"  he  laughingly  asked. 

"  Virulent,  but  not  catching,"  said  she,  helping  him 
to  some  soup. 

There  were  no  soup-plates  and  she  had  dipped  it 
from  the  pot  with  a  teacup  and  served  it  in  a  bowl ; 
but  the  soup  was  just  as  good  and  was  rich  with  vege- 
table nutrition.  He  showed  his  appreciation  by  a 
vigorous  onslaught. 

"And  if  it  were  a  disease  and  catching?"  he  re- 
marked presently. 


208  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

« 

"  Then  you  would  not  be  here,"  she  replied.  "  You 
see,  I'd  run  too  much  risk.  As  it  is — have  some  more 
wine? — But  who  understands  love  better  than  a 
woman,  monsieur?" 

"  Oh,  I  surrender,  mademoiselle, — that  is,  provided 
she  has  loved  and  loves  no  longer." 

"  Been  sick  and  been  cured,  eh  ?"  she  suggested. 
"  But  that  is  more  than  you  require  of  the  medical 
profession." 

«  True " 

He  paused  and  listened.  She  turned  her  head  at  the 
same  moment.  There  were  two  distinct  raps  on  the 
wall.  He  had  heard,  vaguely,  the  sound  of  persons 
coming  and  going  next  door ;  had  distinguished  voices 
in  the  next  flat.  There  was  nothing  strange  about 
that.  But  the  knock  was  the  knock  of  design  and  at 
once  arrested  his  attention. 

The  young  girl  started  to  her  feet,  her  finger  on 
her  lips. 

"  He  wants  me,"  she  said. 

"  That  is  evident,  whoever  '  he'  may  be,"  replied 
Jean,  significantly. 

"  Oh,  it  is  only  Monsieur  de  Beauchamp.  A  sitting, 
perhaps,"  she  added. 

She  slipped  out  of  the  room  without  deeming  it 
necessary  to  resume  her  overskirt.  The  feminine  in- 
habitants of  Rue  St.  Jacques  were  so  extremely  un- 
conventional,— they  not  infrequently  went  down  into 
the  street  for  rolls  and  other  articles  attired  in  this 
charming  negligee  of  the  bedroom  boudoir.  And 
would,  perhaps,  have  extended  this  unconventionality 
to  the  neighboring  cafes,  only  the  proprietaires  had 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  209 

to  draw  a  line  somewhere,  and  had  unanimously  drawn 
it  at  hats  and  skirts,  or  full  street  dress. 

Jean  began  to  think  himself  entirely  deserted,  when 
Mile.  Fouchette  burst  rather  than  walked  into  the 
room  conducting  her  next-door  neighbor. 

Jean  saw  before  him  a  man  scarcely  older  than  him- 
self, rather  spare  of  figure  and  pale  of  face,  in  the 
garb  of  a  provincial  and  with  an  air  of  the  Jesuit  enthu- 
siast rather  than  the  student  of  art.  His  long,  dark  hair 
was  thick  and  bushy  and  worn  trimmed  straight 
around  the  neck  after  the  fashion  of  Jeanne  d' Arc's 
time.  It  completely  hid  his  ears  and  fell  in  sprays 
over  his  temples.  His  face  was  the  typical  Christ 
of  the  old  masters,  the  effect  being  heightened  by  the 
soft,  fine,  virgin  beard  and  moustache  of  somewhat 
fairer  color,  and  by  the  melancholy  eyes,  dark  and 
luminous,  with  their  curled  and  drooping  lashes. 
These  eyes  gave  rather  a  suggestion  of  sadness  and 
inward  suffering,  but  when  animated  seemed  to  glow 
with  the  smouldering  fire  of  centuries. 

"  Pardon,  Monsieur  de  Beauchamp,"  said  Jean,  upon 
being  introduced  to  him,  "  but  mademoiselle  appears 
to  have  forgotten  me  for  art." 

"  Ah !  and  as  if  there  were  no  art  in  making  a 
salad!"  exclaimed  the  painter,  as  he  shook  hands 
with  the  other. 

"Oh!  la,  la,  la!"  cried  Mile.  Fouchette,  wresting 
the  dish  from  Jean's  grasp ;  "  there  would  be  precious 
little  art  in  this  if  you  made  it !"  And  she  proceeded 
with  the  salad  on  her  own  account,  using  the  two 
bowls  that  had  but  recently  served  them  for  soup. 

Monsieur  de  Beauchamp  and  Jean  discussed  the 
14 


210  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

student  "  manifestations"  planned  for  the  next  day. 
The  Dreyfusardes — a  term  by  which  all  who  differed 
from  the  military  regime  were  known — had  announced 
a  public  meeting,  and  a  counter-demonstration  had 
been  called  to  not  only  prevent  that  meeting  but  to 
publicly  chastise  such  as  dared  to  take  part  in  it. 

No  attempt  was  made  to  conceal  these  patriotic 
intentions  from  the  police.  The  walls  blazed  with 
flaming  revolutionary  posters.  The  portrait  of  the 
Due  d'Orleans  appeared  over  specious  promises  in 
case  of  Restoration.  The  Royal  Claimant  was  said 
to  be  concealed  in  Paris.  At  any  rate,  his  agents  were 
busy.  They  were  in  league  with  the  Bonapartists,  the 
Socialists,  the  Anti-Semites,  against  the  things  that 
were,  and  called  the  combination  Nationalists.  They 
were  really  Opportunists.  The  republic  overthrown, 
they  agreed  to  fight  out  their  rival  claims  to  power 
between  themselves. 

The  unfortunate  Jew  merely  served  them  as  a 
weapon.  They  were  the  real  traitors  to  their  coun- 
try. With  the  most  fulsome  adulation  and  the  Jew 
they  courted  the  army  and  sought  to  lead  it  against 
the  republic. 

And  the  republic, — poor,  weak,  headless  combina- 
tion of  inconsistencies, — through  a  tricky  and  vacil- 
lating Ministry  and  a  bitter,  factional  Parliament, 
greatly  encouraged  the  idea  of  any  sort  of  a  change. 

Popular  intolerance  had,  after  a  farcical  civil  trial 
overawed  by  military  authority,  driven  the  foremost 
writer  of  France  into  exile,  as  it  had  Voltaire  and 
Rousseau  and  many  thousands  of  the  best  blood  of 
the  French  before  him. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  211 

The  many  noble  monuments  of  the  Paris  carrefours, 
representing  the  elite  of  France,  the  heroes,  the  apos- 
tles of  letters  and  liberty,  who  were  murdered,  exiled, 
denied  Christian  burial  or  dragged  through  the  streets 
after  death  by  Frenchmen,  stand  morally  united  in 
one  grand  monumental  fane  commemorative  of  French 
intolerance. 

Wherever  is  reared  a  monument  to  French  personal 
worth,  there  also  is  a  mute  testimonial  of  collective 
French  infamy. 

"  Dans  la  rue !"  was  now  the  battle-cry. 

All  of  these  student  "  manifestations"  were  seized 
upon  by  the  worst  elements  of  Paris.  The  estimable 
character  of  these  elements  found  in  the  Place  Mau- 
bert  and  vicinity  may  be  surmised  from  the  fact  that 
a  few  days  previous  to  the  event  about  to  be  herein 
recorded  twenty  men  of  the  neighborhood  were  chosen 
to  maintain  its  superiority  to  the  Halles  Centrales 
against  a  like  number  selected  by  the  latter. 

The  contending  factions  were  drawn  up  in  order 
of  battle  in  Place  Maubert,  on  Boulevard  St.  Germain, 
in  broad  afternoon,  each  man  being  armed  with  a 
knife,  and  precipitated  an  engagement  that  required 
one  hundred  police  reserves  to  quell. 

"If  we  could  only  keep  that  pestiferous  gang  out 
of  our  manifestations,"  said  Jean  now  to  Monsieur 
de  Beauchamp, — "  they  disgrace  us  always !" 

"  Oh,  but  they  are  good  fighters ;  and  there  is  to 
be  fighting  pretty  soon,"  observed  the  artist. 

"  Vive  1'armee !"  cried  Mile.  Fouchette,  flourishing 
a  salad-spoon.  Mile.  Fouchette  had  a  martial  spirit. 

"  Whenever  a  student  is  arrested  he  turns  out  to  be 


212  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

one  of  the  roughs  of  Place  Maubert  or  a  hoodlum  of 
Rue  Monge,  or  a  cutthroat  of  Rue  Mouffetard.  It 
is  disgraceful!" 

"  But  it  shows  the  discretion  of  our  police,  Mon- 
sieur Marot,"  said  the  artist,  with  his  sweet  smile. 
"  You  see  the  police  are  with  us.  We  must  not  be  too 
particular  who  fights  on  our  side,  my  friend.  We 
can't  afford  to  quarrel  with  anybody  just  now  going 
in  our  direction.  They  are  but  means  to  an  end,  let 
us  remember,  and  that  end  the  ancient  prestige  and 
glory  of  France." 

"  A  bas  les  Juifs !"  exclaimed  Mile.  Fouchette,  with- 
out looking  up. 

The  godlike  face  of  the  painter  glowed  with  the  en- 
thusiasm that  consumed  his  soul.  He  now  turned  his 
grand  eyes  upon  the  girl  with  inexpressible  sadness. 

"  That  is  a  question  that  does  not  concern  us,"  said 
he,  "  except  as  another  means  to  an  end.  Innocent  or 
guilty,  shall  the  pleasure  or  pain  of  one  man  stand 
between  the  millions  of  our  countrymen  and  the  wel- 
fare and  perpetuity  of  France  ?" 

"  Never !"  cried  Mile.  Fouchette,  in  her  excitement 
bringing  down  the  salad-bowl  with  a  crash  that  sent 
the  pieces  flying  about  the  room. 

"  Parbleu !"  exclaimed  Jean,  laughing  heartily ; 
"  there  goes  my  salad !" 

"  No ;  the  salad  is  here.  There  goes  my  pretty 
bowl!" 

"  Very  well,  then,  let  us  turn  out  to-morrow,  Mon- 
sieur Marot,  and  do  our  duty.  Au  revoir." 

In  parting  the  artist  nodded  his  head  in  cold  recog- 
nition of  the  existence  of  Mile.  Fouchette.  The  latter 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  213 

turned  on  her  dainty  heel  with  a  glance  at  Jean  that 
spoke  volumes.  But  she  began  arranging  the  little 
table  slowly,  absent-mindedly,  without  a  word.  He 
thought  she  was  lamenting  the  loss  of  the  salad-bowl. 

"  I'll  buy  you  a  pretty  one,"  he  said. 

"  A  pretty — er— a  what?" 

"  Salad-bowl." 

"  Oh,  dame !    I  was  not  thinking  of  the  salad-bowl." 

"  Something  more  serious  ?" 

"  Yes.    Don't  go  to-morrow,  Monsieur  Jean !" 

Her  voice  was  earnest,  but  sunk  to  a  whisper.  He 
regarded  her  with  astonishment. 

"  Don't  go,  Monsieur  Jean !"  she  repeated.  "  Have 
nothing  to  do  with  them !  There  will  be  two  thousand 
hired  roughs  from  La  Villette,  the  killers  from  the 
abattoirs,  and "  She  stopped  short. 

"  How  now,  mon  enfant  ?    How " 

But  she  had  clapped  her  small  hand  over  his  mouth 
in  a  half-vexed,  half-frightened  way,  with  a  definite 
gesture  towards  the  next  room. 

"  Have  a  care,  monsieur,"  she  whispered  in  his  ear, 
then  laughingly  resumed  her  bantering  tone.  "  How 
do  you  like  my  salad  ?  Is  it  not  capital  ?" 


CHAPTER   XI 

JEAN  MAROT  found  Mile.  Fouchette  interesting  but 
incomprehensible. 

Jean  believed  himself  to  be  a  sincere  and  true  repub- 
lican,— and  he  was,  in  fact,  quite  as  logical  in  this  as 
were  many  of  the  so-called  republicans  of  the  French 
Parliament,  who,  like  their  familiar  political  prototypes 
in  the  United  States,  talked  one  way  and  voted  another. 
He  had  participated  in  the  street  disturbances  as  a  pro- 
test against  the  Ministry  and  for  the  pure  love  of  ex- 
citement, not  against  the  republic. 

As  to  the  Dreyfus  case,  he  had  been  satisfied,  with 
most  of  his  countrymen,  upon  the  statement  of  five 
successive  ministers  of  war. 

After  all,  in  a  country  where  so  many  have  always 
stood  ready  to  sell  their  national  liberty  for  the  gold  of 
the  stranger,  it  came  easy  to  believe  in  one  Judas  more. 

The  United  States  has  had  but  one  Benedict  Ar- 
nold; France  counts  her  traitors  by  the  thousands. 
They  spring  from  every  rank  and  are  incidental  to 
every  age.  The  word  Treachery  is  the  most  important 
word  in  French  domestic  history. 

And  when  honest  men  doubted  the  justice  of  a  coun- 
cil of  war,  they  were  silenced  by  the  specious  reason- 
ing of  men  like  M.  de  Beauchamp.  Had  Jean  been  in- 
vited to  assist  in  overturning  the  republic  and  to  put 
Philippe  d'Orleans  on  the  throne,  he  would  have  re- 
volted. His  political  ideals  would  have  been  outraged. 
Yet  every  act  committed  by  him  and  by  his  blind  parti- 
sans tended  directly,  and  were  secretly  engineered  by 
others,  to  that  end. 
214 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  215 

Jean  Marot  in  this  was  but  a  fair  type  of  tens  of 
thousands  of  his  intelligent  but  headstrong  and  mis- 
guided countrymen. 

"  In  the  street !" 

Once  in  the  street  the  following  day,  Jean  forgot 
his  serious  reflections  of  the  previous  night.  It  was 
Sunday,  the  chosen  day  of  battle  by  sea  and  land, — a 
day  consecrated  to  violence  and  bloodshed  by  the  Paris 
mob.  The  students  gathered  at  the  divided  rendez- 
vous of  the  Place  Pantheon  and  the  Place  de  1'Odeon. 
Many  of  them  wore  the  white  boutonniere  of  the 
Jeunesse  Royalistes,  the  tricolor,  the  red  rose  of  com- 
munism, or  other  badge  of  particular  political  belief, 
and  all  carried  canes,  some  of  which  were  loaded  and 
some  of  the  sword  variety.  Their  leaders  excitedly 
harangued  them  while  the  heavy  squads  of  police 
agents  distributed  in  the  vicinity  watched  the  proceed- 
ings without  interference. 

Indeed,  the  royalists  and  their  allies  had  abundant 
reason  to  believe  the  police  force  of  Paris,  officers  and 
men,  civil  and  military,  in  sympathy  with  their  move- 
ment against  the  republic.  Not  one  of  the  many  street 
disturbances  of  the  year  past  had  been  the  spontaneous 
outburst  of  popular  anger  that  is  the  forerunner  of 
revolution.  On  every  occasion  they  had  been,  as  they 
were  in  this  instance,  the  publicly  prearranged  breaches 
of  the  peace  in  which  the  worst  elements  of  the  Paris 
world  were  invited  or  hired  to  join.  This  was  well 
known  to  the  government.  It  would  have  been  easy 
and  perfectly  legal  and  wise  to  have  anticipated  them 
by  governmental  authority.  Acting  under  that  author- 
ity, a  score  or  two  of  police  agents  could  have  dis- 


216  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

parsed  all  preliminary  gatherings.  Under  the  eye  of 
such  a  police  force  as  we  have  in  New  York  any  one 
of  the  numerous  riots  which  disgraced  the  streets  of 
Paris  during  the  pendency  of  the  "  Affaire"  would 
have  been  impossible. 

The  police  of  Paris,  however,  are  French, — which 
is  to  say  that  they  are  incapable  of  seeing  their  duty 
from  a  strictly  impersonal  point  of  view,  but  are  lax 
to  the  utmost  indifference  and  partiality  or  brutal  to 
the  extreme  of  cruelty  and  fiendishness. 

But  perhaps  the  severest  censure  of  the  Paris  police 
agent  lies  in  the  fact  that  no  just  magistrate  accepts 
his  unsupported  testimony,  and  that  at  least  two-thirds 
of  his  riot  arrests  are  nullified  at  once  by  setting  the 
victims  at  liberty.  As  the  police  agent  is  the  creature 
of  the  general  government  and  is  not  responsible  to 
the  municipality,  he  can  only  be  brought  to  book  when 
he  makes  the  mistake  of  offending  some  high  person- 
age. To  the  complaint  of  an  ordinary  citizen  he  would 
probably  reply  by  drawing  his  cloak  around  him  and 
expectorating  viciously. 

"  Qu'est-ce  que  c,a  me  fiche?" 

The  students  assembled  at  the  Place  du  Pantheon 
easily  avoided  the  shadowy  blue  barrier  drawn  up 
across  the  Rue  SoufHot.  They  howled  a  good  deal  in 
unison,  then  suddenly  disappeared  down  Rue  Cujas, 
and,  pouring  into  Boulevard  St.  Michel,  joined  forces 
at  the  foot  of  Rue  Racine  with  their  comrades  from  the 
Place  de  1'Odeon.  Like  all  student  manifestations  of 
any  sort,  the  procession  made  a  great  noise,  sticks  were 
brandished,  and  the  air  rent  with  cries  of  "  Vive  Tar- 
mee !  A  bas  les  traitres !" 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  217 

The  peaceful  shopkeepers  came  to  their  doors  and 
regarded  the  young  men  indulgently.  "  Ah !  la 
jeunesse  n'a  q'un  temps!" 

Some  four  hundred  young  men  from  the  great 
schools  were  joined  at  the  Place  St.  Michel  by  numer- 
ous hoodlums  and  roughs  from  the  purlieus  of  Rue 
St.  Severin,  Place  Maubert,  and  the  equally  delectable 
region  of  Rue  de  la  Hutchette.  These  patriot  soldiers 
of  fortune  "  emeuted"  for  the  low  rate  of  forty  sous 
per  day,  and  were  mostly  armed  with  bludgeons, 
wherewith  to  earn  their  meagre  salary.  It  mattered 
little  whom  they  served,  though  it  was  just  now  the 
noble  Due  d'Orleans. 

The  police  saw  this  addition  with  a  knowing  eye. 
They  barred  the  entrance  to  the  Pont  St.  Michel.  It 
was  a  half-hearted  effort,  and  with  cries  of  "  Vive  la 
liberte  !"  "  En  avant !"  the  mob  of  young  men  swept  the 
thin  files  out  of  the  way  and  gained  the  bridge.  Not, 
however,  without  some  kicks  and  blows,  broken  canes, 
and  bleeding  faces.  A  lusty  gold-laced  brigadier  rolled 
in  the  dust,  desperately  clinging  to  two  coat-collars, 
and  won  the  coveted  cross  by  allowing  himself  to  be 
kicked  and  stamped  almost  out  of  human  resemblance 
by  the  infuriated  mob  of  rescuers. 

By  this  time  the  head  of  the  mob  had  reached  the 
other  end  of  the  bridge,  where  a  double  barrier  of 
agents  was  drawn  up  across  the  street.  A  gray-haired 
commissaire  of  long  and  distinguished  police  service 
walked  calmly  forward  alone  to  meet  them.  His  reso- 
lute step,  his  pose,  bespoke  his  dignity  and  courage. 
He  raised  his  left  hand  with  the  air  of  authority  accus- 
tomed to  being  obeyed. 


218  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

His  keen  eyes  at  once  sought  and  found  and  held 
the  eyes  of  the  leaders. 

"  You  must  go  back, — you  cannot  cross  here, — you 
must  disperse " 

"  Sacre !"  growled  the  crowd,  moving  forward 
threateningly.  "  We  have  a  right  to  cross  anywhere ! 
We  are  citizens  of  Paris  and  have  the  rights  of  any 
other  citizen, — the  same  as  you,  Monsieur  le  Commis- 
saire !" 

A  dozen  such  protests  on  the  instant.  But  the  wily 
veteran  was  ready.  He  knew  that  when  a  mob  stops 
to  parley  the  battle  is  half  won. 

"  Oh,  yes,  messieurs, — singly,  or  as  other  good  citi- 
zens, you  are  right ;  but  not  as " 

A  young  man  reached  over  his  comrades'  shoulders 
and  struck  the  old  commissaire  in  the  face  with  his 
cane. 

"  For  shame !"  cried  Jean  Marot,  indignantly. 
"  What  foolishness !"  And  he  broke  the  cane  across 
his  knee  and  threw  the  fragments  to  the  ground. 

In  the  same  moment  the  old  commissaire  dashed 
into  the  crowd  and  single-handed  dragged  his  youth- 
ful assailant  to  the  front  and  clear  of  his  companions. 

"The  guard!  the  guard!  Look  out,  comrades! 
here  comes  the  guard !" 

The  cry  ran  along  the  line  and  through  the  ranks 
hushed  by  the  wanton  blow  delivered  unnecessarily 
upon  a  respected  official.  A  company  of  the  Garde 
Republicaine  a  pied  had  filed  out  across  the  Boulevard 
du  Palais  from  behind  the  Prefecture;  another  com- 
pany a  cheval  debouched  into  the  quai  from  the  other 
corner,  and  now  rode  slowly  down  towards  the  bridge. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  219 

"  Bayonets  in  front  and  sabres  on  the  flank !"  said 
Jean  to  those  around  him.  "  It  were  wise  to  get  out 
of  this." 

"  Good  advice,  young  man, — get  out !  It  won't  do, 
you  see.  You  must  cross  singly,  or  as  other  citizens. 
Never  mind  your  hot-headed  young  friend,"  added  the 
old  man,  kindly,  as  he  wiped  the  blood  from  his  face. 
"  We  won't  be  hard  on  him.  Only,  you  must  go  back 
at  once !" 

He  talked  to  them  as  if  they  were  little  children. 
But  they  needed  no  further  urging.  The  rear-guard 
had  already  turned  tail  at  the  sight  of  the  troops  and 
were  in  full  retreat.  Before  the  last  man  had  cleared 
the  bridge  the  only  one  who  had  been  arrested  was 
set  at  liberty,  though  he  had  richly  earned  six  months 
in  jail. 

And  thus  terminated  the  harebrained  attempt  to 
march  five  hundred  riotous  men  through  the  city  di- 
rectly in  front  of  the  Prefecture,  where  lay  unlimited 
reserves,  civil  and  military,  under  arms.  The  royalists 
had  somewhat  overstrained  the  complaisance  of  the 
authorities. 

Acting  at  once  on  the  hint  of  the  police  official,  the 
crowd  broke  up  into  small  groups.  "  A  la  Concorde ! 
a  la  Concorde !  Concorde !"  they  cried. 

This  revolutionary  rendezvous  was  prearranged  to 
mean  Place  du  Carrousel,  conditional  on  police  inter- 
ference. It  was  to  deceive  the  authorities,  the  main 
object  being  to  form  a  junction  with  the  anticipated 
hordes  from  Montmartre  and  La  Villette. 

But  a  mob  broken  into  scattered  groups  is  no  longer 
a  mob,  and  being  no  longer  a  mob,  there  is  no  longer 


220  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

courage  or  cohesion  of  purpose.  Instead  of  some  four 
hundred  students  and  about  a  hundred  roughs,  not 
more  than  fifty  of  the  former  responded  at  the  foot  of 
the  Gambetta  monument,  while  the  latter  class  had 
gathered  strength  by  the  way. 

This  discrepancy,  though  painfully  apparent  to  Jean 
Marot  and  his  friends,  in  no  wise  dampened  their 
ardor.  Their  chosen  speakers  lashed  them  into  fresh 
furors  of  patriotism  while  they  waited.  The  eloquent 
young  man  who  quoted  the  words  of  Gambetta  en- 
graved on  his  monument  wrung  tears  from  his  sympa- 
thetic auditors.  These  words  of  wisdom  and  patriot- 
ism had  no  pertinence  whatever  to  the  work  in  hand, 
— which  was  to  break  up  a  meeting  organized  by 
some  distinguished  philanthropists,  scholars,  and  their 
friends  in  the  interests  of  civil  liberty  and  the  perpetu- 
ity of  human  rights, — but  everything  serves  as  fuel  to 
a  flame  well  started. 

Carried  away  by  the  spirit  of  exaltation,  Jean  Marot 
clambered  upon  the  monument  itself,  and  ascending 
the  heroic  figure  of  Gambetta  amid  the  wild  plaudits 
of  the  mob,  kissed  the  mute  stone  lips.  His  hat  had 
fallen  to  the  ground,  and  now  the  hysterical  crowd 
tore  it  into  bits  and  scrambled  for  the  pieces,  which 
they  pinned  on  their  breasts  as  precious  souvenirs  of 
the  occasion. 

When  Jean  reached  the  earth  it  was  to  be  franti- 
cally embraced  on  every  side.  A  great,  broad-shoul- 
dered, big-bearded  man  in  a  cap  and  the  blouse  of  the 
artisan  crowned  this  exciting  ceremony  by  kissing  the 
young  student  full  on  the  mouth. 

A  score  of  hats  were  tendered,  but  Jean  accepted  the 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  221 

cap  of  the  stalwart  workman,  who  immediately  bran- 
dished his  club  and  shouted  "  En  avant !"  He  un- 
wound his  soiled  red  sash  as  he  started,  and,  making 
it  deftly  into  a  sort  of  turban,  constituted  himself 
Jean's  special  body-guard  for  the  day. 

The  strong  force  of  police  posted  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  Louvre  had  regarded  this  street  drama 
with  stoical  indifference.  When  the  noisy  crowd 
surged  into  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  it  passed  between  the 
mounted  videttes  of  the  Garde  Republicaine.  Farther 
on,  in  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  a  squad  of  dismounted 
cuirassiers  stood  listlessly  holding  the  bridles  of  their 
horses.  The  afternoon  sun  flashed  electric  rays  from 
the  plates  of  burnished  steel. 

"  Vive  1'armee !"  burst  from  the  mob. 

A  subaltern  on  the  curb  touched  his  glittering  casque 
in  military  salute  without  stirring  a  muscle  of  his 
armored  body. 

Now  recognized  leader,  Jean  directed  the  march  up 
the  narrow  Rue  de  Richelieu,  observing  to  his  bearded 
aide  that  it  was  more  direct  and  safe,  though  shouts 
of  "  Avenue  de  1'Opera !  1'Opera !"  rose  from  his  fol- 
lowers. Jean  paid  no  attention  to  these  cries. 

"  You  are  right,  my  boy !"  said  the  man  in  the 
blouse,  patting  Jean  on  the  shoulder  approvingly. 
"  The  broad  streets  are  to  the  agents  and  military. 
The  cuirassiers  can  there  trample  men  like  flies  !  Ah ! 
with  a  regiment  of  cavalry  and  a  battery  of  three 
quick-firers  one  could  hold  Paris  at  the  Place  de 
1'Opera  against  the  world !" 

"  Yes,  my  friend,"  answered  Jean,  with  a  smile, 
"  always  provided  the  world  agreed  not  to  drop  thou- 


222  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

sand-pound  melinite  shells  on  one  from  Mont  Valerien 
or  Montmartre,  or  from  some  other  place." 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes, — you  are  right,  my  boy,"  admitted 
the  other.  "  En  avant !" 

This  man  had  the  voice  of  a  Stentor.  He  was  also 
a  Hercules  of  strength.  Here  and  there  the  narrow 
street  seemed  blocked  with  vehicles ;  but  when  he  did 
not  terrorize  the  drivers  into  immediate  flight  at  the 
sound  of  his  voice  and  the  sight  of  his  club  he  would 
calmly  lift  the  encumbrance  and  set  it  to  one  side. 

"  En  avant !"  he  would  then  roar. 

Where  possible,  however,  all  vehicles  promptly  fled 
the  street  save  the  omnibuses.  From  the  imperiale- 
of  one  of  these  came  the  cry, — 

"  Vive  la  republique !" 

"  Vive  1'armee !"  yelled  the  mob. 

"  Vive  la  republique !"  came  the  response. 

A  dash  was  made  for  the  omnibus.  While  four  or 
five  men  held  the  horses  a  dozen  or  more  clambered 
over  the  wheels  and  up  the  narrow  steps  behind. 
There  were  sixteen  persons  on  top,  seven  of  whom 
were  women.  The  latter  shrieked.  Two  fainted  away. 
The  assailants  sprang  upon  the  men  and  demanded  the 
one  who  had  dared  to  consider  the  health  of  the  re- 
public without  the  army.  No  one  could  or  would 
point  him  out.  On  the  apparently  well  established 
French  principle  that  it  is  better  that  ten  innocent 
should  suffer  punishment  rather  than  that  one  guilty 
person  should  escape  the  patriotic  young  men  assaulted 
everybody.  A  white-haired  old  man  who  protested 
was  slapped  in  the  face,  another  man  was  quieted  by 
a  brutal  kick  in  the  abdomen  that  doubled  him  up,  a 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  223 

couple  of  foreigners  who  could  neither  understand  the 
language  nor  comprehend  what  it  was  all  about  were 
roughly  handled,  a  half-grown  boy  was  cuffed, — 
everybody  but  the  driver  came  in  for  blows  and  in- 
sults ;  and  this  driver  of  the  omnibus  was  in  all  proba- 
bility the  real  villain. 

"Enavant!" 

This  lesson  was  administered  en  route,  and  without 
stopping  the  main  body  of  manifestants  pressed  on 
into  the  grand  boulevard,  to  be  swallowed  up  in  the 
resistless  human  current  that  now  flowed  down  upon 
the  Place  de  1'Opera. 


CHAPTER   XII 

A  FORMIDABLE  proportion  of  the  grand  concourse 
which  filled  the  fashionable  boulevards  from  curb  to 
curb  this  beautiful  Sunday  afternoon  was  composed 
of  the  so-called  "  boulevardiers,"  "  flaneurs,"  and 
"  badauds,"  who  invariably  appear  on  occasion  offer- 
ing excitement.  For  the  Parisian  world  loves  to  be 
amused,  and  to  have  the  pulse  quickened  by  riot  and 
bloodshed  is  to  very  many  the  highest  form  of  amuse- 
ment. It  is  better  than  a  bull-fight. 

To  most  of  this  very  large  class  of  Parisians  it  is 
immaterial  what  form  of  government  they  live  under, 
provided  that  in  some  way  or  another  it  furnish  plenty 
of  excitement.  No  other  country  in  the  civilized 
world,  unless  Spain  is  to  be  included  under  this  head, 
produces  this  peculiar  class,  the  unseen  influence  of 
which  seems  to  have  escaped  the  brilliant  French 
writers  who  have  recorded  the  turbulent  history  of 
France. 

The  cardinal  characteristic  of  the  French  individu- 
ally and  as  a  people  is  love  of  and  admiration  for 
theatrical  display.  This  finds  such  ample  illustration 
in  all  of  their  known  domestic  as  well  as  international 
affairs  that  even  the  mere  statement  seems  unneces- 
sary. It  permeates  every  social  rank,  and  it  enters 
into  the  performance  of  the  simplest  private  as  well 
as  public  duties.  In  higher  governmental  affairs  it  was 
accurately  represented  by  the  late  President  of  the 
republic,  Felix  Faure,  who  went  among  his  country- 
men in  a  coach  and  four  preceded  by  trumpeters  and 
accompanied  by  a  regiment  of  cuirassiers,  and  who 
224 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  225 

required  of  his  entourage  all  of  the  formalities  of 
royalty.  The  hundreds  of  thousands  who  enjoyed  his 
kingly  funeral  would  have  been  equally  entertained  by 
a  public  execution. 

In  the  French  nature,  as  has  been  said,  is  implanted 
a  keen  zest  for  excitement.  The  Frenchman  is  raven- 
ous for  the  theatrical  situation, — a  perfect  gormandizer 
of  the  dramatic  event.  Whatever  or  whoever  lacks 
this  gilded  framework  is  neither  remembered  nor 
noted.  The  supply  invariably  follows  the  demand; 
without  spectators  there  would  be  no  spectacle, — just 
as  there  is  no  sound  where  there  are  no  ears. 

Any  Frenchman,  therefore,  who  has  any  theatrical 
novelty  to  offer,  whether  as  a  political  mountebank, 
or  a  bogus  hero,  or  a  peculiarly  atrocious  crime,  is 
sure  of  a  large  audience.  For  there  is  a  wide  range  of 
appreciation  in  that  mercurial  nature  which,  according 
to  Voltaire,  is  half  monkey  and  half  tiger. 

The  evident  pleasure  with  which  vast  Parisian 
crowds  view  riots  and  revolution  and  the  various 
phases  of  alternate  anarchy  and  absolutism  may  be 
easily  and  naturally  accepted  by  the  actors  in  these 
living  dramas  as  tacit  if  not  positive  approval.  The 
professional  patriot  does  not  perform  to  empty  seats, 
and  the  few  hundred  hired  assassins  of  the  public 
peace  and  private  liberty  would  be  out  of  a  job  but 
for  the  hundred  thousand  passive  and  more  or  less 
amused  spectators  who  scramble  for  the  best  places  to 
witness  and  make  merry  over  the  show. 

That  this  curious  crowd  is  greatly  swelled  by  what 
in  other  lands  is  recognized  as  the  gentler  or  softer  sex 
increases  its  responsibility.  The  civilization  whch  has 

IS 


226  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

produced  so  many  women  of  the  heroic  type,  so  many 
of  the  nobler  masculine  brain  and  hand,  has  also  gen- 
erated a  vast  brood  which  poisons  the  germs  of  human 
life  and  hands  down  bigotry,  intolerance,  revengeful- 
ness,  cruelty,  and  love  of  turbulence  and  bloodshed 
from  generation  to  generation. 

Of  the  performers  before  this  audience  Jean  Marot 
and  his  stalwart  companion  found  themselves  particu- 
larly observed  from  their  debut.  The  red  turban  was 
conspicuous  enough,  and  gave  a  theatrical  aspect  to 
the  man  who  wore  it.  There  was  that  in  his  ensemble 
which  recalled  the  great  Revolution  and  the  scarcely 
less  sanguinary  conflicts  of  '71.  By  his  side  and  con- 
trasting strangely  with  the  coarse  brute  features  of 
this  muscular  humanity  was  the  finely  chiselled  face  of 
the  student  under  the  rough  cap  of  the  workman.  A 
picturesque  pair,  they  were  greeted  on  all  sides  with  all 
sorts  of  cries  and  comments : 

"  That  red  cap  is  very  appropriate." 

"  It  is  the  head-dress  of  the  barricades." 

"Sure!" 

"  Of  la  Villette,  hein?" 

"  The  man  is  mad !" 

"Ah!  look  at  that!" 

"  There  goes  a  good  rascal." 

"  A  young  man  and  his  father  perhaps." 

"No!" 

"  Long  live  the  students !" 

"  En  avant !"  roared  the  man  in  the  red  turban. 

"  Vive  1'anarchie !"  shouted  an  individual  on  the 
curb  whose  eyes  were  glazed  from  absinthe. 

The  crowd  laughed.    Some  applauded, — not  so  much 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  227 

the  sentiment  as  the  drunken  wit.  The  people  were 
being  entertained. 

"  We  certainly  have  the  street  this  day,"  observed 
Jean  to  his  companon. 

"  Right  you  are,  my  boy !" 

Both  noted  the  squadron  of  cuirassiers  drawn  up  in 
front  of  the  Opera,  the  police  agents  massed  on  either 
side,  and  the  regiment  of  the  line  under  arms  in  the 
Rue  4  Septembre  close  at  hand.  In  the  middle  distance 
a  squadron  of  the  Garde  de  Paris  came  leisurely  up  the 
Avenue  de  1'Opera. 

"  You  see,  my  friend,"  said  Jean,  smiling,  "  the  gov- 
ernment is  looking  sharply  after  its  strategic  position." 

"Vivel'armee!" 

The  man  in  the  red  turban  swung  his  baton,  and  his 
resounding  cry  was  caught  up  by  the  manifestants. 
It  was  the  voice  of  flattery  and  conciliation  extended 
to  the  army,  through  which  the  royalist  party  hoped  to 
win  a  throne. 

But  they  were  not  alone  there.  From  several  quar- 
ters came  sharp  rejoinders  of  "  Vive  la  justice !" 
"  Vive  la  republique !"  "  Vive  la  France !" 

While  these  cries  seemed  harmless  if  not  proper,  they 
were  judged  seditious  by  the  police,  who  made  a  dash 
for  those  who  uttered  them.  In  another  instant  the 
man  with  the  red  turban  would  have  saved  the  agents 
the  trouble  of  arresting  the  nearest  person  had  not 
Jean  grasped  the  baton.  The  brute  face  had  taken  on 
a  flush  of  red  ferocity.  His  blow  restrained,  the  man 
spat  in  the  face  of  his  intended  victim  and  strode  on. 

"  Not  yet,  my  friend !"  exclaimed  the  student  leader. 
"  What !  precipitate  a  fight  here !  Madness !  We 


228  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

should  be  ridden  down  within  three  minutes!  The 
government  will  be  sure  to  protect  the  Opera." 

"  Yes ;  you  are  always  right,  mon  enfant,"  growled 
the  man. 

Meanwhile,  the  unfortunate  Parisian  who  wanted 
"justice"  got  it;  being  dragged  off  by  two  police 
agents,  who  took  turns  in  kicking  and  cuffing  their 
prisoner  on  the  way  to  the  depot.  There  he  was 
charged  with  uttering  seditious  cries  calculated  to  lead 
to  a  breach  of  the  peace. 

Gathering  confidence  from  immunity,  however,  the 
manifestants  spon  ceased  to  observe  this  respect  for 
public  opinion.  In  Boulevard  Haussmann  they  got  out 
from  the  eye  of  the  military.  They  began  to  hustle 
those  who  happened  to  get  in  their  way.  Those  who 
were  not  sufficiently  explicit  in  their  views  were  com- 
pelled to  cry  "  Vive  1'armee ;"  whoever  refused  was 
promptly  knocked  on  the  head. 

"  Monsieur  Front  de  Boeuf,"  said  Jean  Marot  to  his 
companion,  who  had  narrowly  missed  spattering  the 
young  leader  with  the  brains  of  a  misguided  Drey- 
fusarde,  "  if  you  will  strike  less  heavily  you  will  longer 
remain  with  us,  and  possibly  for  a  time  escape  the 
guillotine.  Let  us  do  no  murder,  mon  ami.  Your 
stick  is  heavy." 

"  That's  so ;  but  it  is  a  lovely  stick  all  the  same," 
replied  the  man,  with  a  satisfied  air,  as  he  wiped  the 
blood  from  his  hands  upon  his  blouse. 

Then  for  the  first  time  Jean  noticed  that  this  blouse 
bore  many  old  stains  of  the  same  sanguinary  color. 
Undoubtedly  it  was  blood.  Human  ?  Faugh ! 

Jean  saw  around  him  other  men  of  the  same  type, 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  229 

red-faced  and  strong-limbed,  mentally  as  well  as  physi- 
cally saturated  with  the  brutality  of  their  calling. 
He  thought  of  Mile.  Fouchette.  It  was  true,  then, 
that  these  human  brutes  from  the  abattoirs  were  here. 
That  other  type,  the  "  camelot," — he  of  the  callous, 
cadaverous  face,  thinly  clad  body,  cunning  eyes,  husky 
lungs, — was  more  familiar. 

But  these  butchers  of  La  Villette,  why  were  they 
royalists  ?  What  special  interest  had  the  killers  of  cat- 
tle in  the  restoration  of  the  monarchy?  They  had 
emphasized  their  devotion  to  the  Due  d'Orleans  by 
re-electing  his  parliamentary  leader,  the  Comte  de 
Sabran,  by  an  overwhelming  vote.  From  the  rich  and 
influential  wholesaler  to  the  low  hind  whose  twelve 
*  hours  a  day  were  passed  in  knocking  bullocks  on  the 
head  or  in  slitting  throats  with  precision  the  butchers 
stood  three  to  one  for  the  royal  regime.  Men  may  be 
hired  for  certain  services,  but  in  such  a  case  as  this 
there  must  exist  some  natural  sentiment  at  bottom. 
This  sentiment  was  perhaps  only  the  common  French 
intolerance  of  existing  things. 

Jean  Marot's  train  of  thought  had  not  reached  that 
far,  owing  to  fresh  differences  of  opinion  between  some 
of  his  followers  and  the  spectators,  in  which  it  became 
necessary  for  a  dozen  men  to  kick  one  helpless  fellow- 
man  into  insensibility. 

They  were  now  nearing  the  proposed  place  of  meet- 
ing, and  the  hitherto  scattered  cries  of  "  Vive  la  jus- 
tice!" "Vive  la  liberte !"  "Vive  la  France!"  and 
"  Vive  la  republique !"  had  developed  into  well-defined 
opposition.  Personal  collisions,  blows,  objurgations, 
came  thicker  and  faster. 


230  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

Finally,  from  the  "  terrasse"  of  a  fashionable  cafe 
in  the  Boulevard  Malesherbes  came  very  decided  ex- 
pressions of  dissent.  They  were  followed  by  a  general 
assault  on  the  place.  Not  less  than  thirty  of  the  usual 
respectable  Sunday  afternoon  "  consommateurs"  occu- 
pied the  chairs,  and,  though  not  more  than  half  a  dozen 
of  these  could  have  offended,  the  mob  came  down  upon 
them  like  a  living  avalanche,  throwing  the  entire  Sun- 
day party  of  both  sexes  promiscuously  among  the 
debris  of  tables,  chairs,  glasses,  and  drinks. 

The  women  shrieked,  the  men  cursed  loudly,  and 
everybody  struggled  in  the  general  wreck.  While  the 
male  portion  were  kicked  and  stamped  where  they  lay, 
the  feminine  part  of  the  cafe  crowd  fought  tooth  and 
nail  to  escape  in  any  direction. 

There  were  three  dissatisfied  beings,  however,  who 
objected  to  this  summary  treatment,  and  who,  having 
regained  a  footing,  courageously  defended  themselves 
with  the  nearest  weapons  at  hand.  These  were  empty 
beer-glasses,  which,  being  fraudulently  double  thick 
at  the  bottom,  were  admirably  designed  for  that  par- 
ticular use.  But  when  three  beer-glasses  conflict  with 
twenty  loaded  canes  the  former,  however  valiantly 
wielded,  must  succumb  to  the  rule  of  the  majority. 
Among  the  latter,  too,  was  the  particularly  heavy  stick 
of  the  patriot  from  the  abattoirs  of  La  Villette.  He 
had  received  a  blow  from  a  glass  that  laid  his  cheek 
open  and  had  jumped  upon  his  assailant. 

"  Death !"   he  roared. 

The  man  sank  without  a  groan  amid  the  broken 
glass,  beer,  and  blood.  The  savage  aimed  a  terrific 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  231 

blow  of  the  boot  at  the  upturned  face,  but  was  jostled 
out  of  his  aim.  Again,  and  with  the  snarl  of  a  wild 
beast;  but  a  woman  had  thrown  herself  across  the 
prostrate  figure  and  encircled  the  still  form  with  her 
protecting  arm.  The  butcher  would  have  planted  his 
iron-shod  heel  upon  her,  but  at  this  critical  juncture 
another  woman — a  slender,  pale,  weak-looking  thing 
whose  blonde  hair  fell  loosely  over  her  rouged  cheeks 
— flew  at  him  with  a  scream  half  human,  half  feline, — 
such  as  chills  the  blood  in  the  midnight  of  the  forest. 
With  one  hand  she  tore  out  great  bunches  of  beard 
by  the  roots,  with  the  other  she  left  red  furrows  on 
his  face  like  the  paths  of  a  garden-rake.  Quick  as 
lightning-flashes,  again  and  again,  and  with  each  suc- 
cessive stroke  of  her  claws  came  the  low,  hysterical 
whine  of  the  wild  beast. 

It  was  Mile.  Fouchette. 

Her  catlike  jaws  were  distended  and  quivering, — 
the  white  teeth  glistened, — the  eyes  of  steel  seemed 
to  emit  sparks  of  fire, — the  small,  lithe  body  swayed 
and  undulated  like  that  of  an  angry  puma. 

"  Yes ! — so ! — death ! — yes ! — death ! — you ! — beast ! 
— you  devil !" 

With  each  energetic  word  went  a  wild  sweep  of  the 
claws  or  came  a  wisp  of  beard. 

The  man  bellowed  with  pain.  The  unexpected  fury 
of  her  onslaught,  the  general  melee  of  close  quarters, 
the  instinct  of  protection,  contributed  to  prevent  the 
man  from  simply  braining  her  with  his  "  casse-tete." 
He  was  a  lion  against  a  hornet,  powerless  to  punish 
his  puny  assailant.  As  he  finally  broke  away,  she 


232  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

suddenly  whirled  and  delivered  beneath  the  arm  that 
shielded  his  eyes  a  kick  that  half  choked  him  with  his 
own  teeth. 

Blinded  with  blood  and  howling  with  pain,  the 
wretch  plunged  headlong  through  the  cafe  front  amid 
a  crash  of  falling  glass. 

In  the  mean  time,  while  this  little  curtain-raiser  had 
been  getting  under  way,  there  was  still  another  and 
more  important  drama  in  active  preparation. 

The  police,  as  if  to  lend  such  material  aid  to  the 
royalist  cause  as  lay  in  their  power,  and  to  assist  in 
the  punishment  of  those  misguided  Frenchmen  who 
took  the  words  "  Liberte,  figalite,  Fraternite,"  in- 
scribed over  the  doors  of  the  public  hall,  in  a  too  lit- 
eral sense,  had  violently  closed  those  doors  against 
the  latter  and  by  cunningly  arranged  barriers  driven 
the  unsuspecting  Dreyfusardes  down  upon  their 
armed  enemies.  It  was  a  most  admirably  arranged 
plot  to  destroy  the  public  peace,  and  reflected  credit 
upon  the  clerico-royalist-military  council  that  had 
planned  it. 

Before  the  indignant  republicans  had  begun  to  real- 
ize the  character  of  the  trap  set  for  them  they  found 
themselves  hemmed  in  on  three  sides  by  the  police 
and  attacked  by  the  combination  of  hostile  forces  on 
the  other  side. 

The  latter  had  been  quietly  assembled  in  the  vicinity 
in  anticipation  of  this  denouement.  They  were  led 
by  Senators  and  Deputies  wearing  the  official  scarf  of 
their  high  legislative  function.  This  at  once  afforded 
the  latter  reasonable  immunity  from  arrest,  and  served 
to  encourage  and  assure  those  accustomed  to  look  for 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  233 

some  shadow  of  authority  to  conceal  or  excuse  the  evil 
of  their  deeds. 

The  French  Senator  or  Deputy  who  leads  street 
rioters  against  a  peaceable  assemblage  of  his  fellow- 
citizens  one  day  and  serenely  sits  in  national  legislative 
deliberation  the  next  day  is  the  faithful  representative 
of  a  constituency  as  far  removed  from  the  American 
type  of  citizenship  as  the  French  legislator  is  from 
our  national  legislator. 

With  shouts  of  "  Vive  1'armee !"  "  A  bas  les  ven- 
dus !"  "  Vive  France  aux  FranQais !"  "  A  bas  les 
Juifs !"  the  waiting  combination,  or  "  nationalistes," 
fell  upon  their  victims  with  fist,  heel,  and  club.  This 
was  not  as  a  body,  the  assailants  being  cleverly  scat- 
tered everywhere  through  the  crowd,  and  assaulting 
individually  and  supporting  each  other  where  resist- 
ance was  encountered.  As  many  were  mere  specta- 
tors, they  were  compelled  to  declare  themselves  or 
come  in  for  a  share  of  the  drubbing,  though  this  op- 
portunity for  escape  was  not  always  offered  or  ac- 
cepted. 

The  pure  love  of  fighting  is  strong  in  the  French 
as  in  the  Irish  breast,  and  once  roused  the  Frenchman 
is  not  too  particular  whose  head  comes  beneath  his 
baton. 

It  naturally  happened,  therefore,  that  on  this  oc- 
casion the  innocent  curious  of  all  opinions  received 
impartial  treatment,  often  without  knowing  to  which 
side  they  were  indebted  for  their  thumping.  Every 
man  thus  assaulted  at  once  became  a  rioter  and  began 
the  work  on  his  own  particular  account.  Within  a 
brief  period  not  less  than  a  hundred  personal  combats 


234  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

were  going  on  at  the  same  moment.  As  far  as  the 
eye  could  reach  the  broad  boulevard  was  a  surging 
sea  of  scuffling  humanity,  above  which  rose  a  cloud 
of  dust  and  a  continuous  roar  of  angry  voices.  To 
the  distant  ear  this  was  as  one  voice, — that  of  terrible 
imprecation. 

Having  thus  ingeniously  united  the  conflicting  cur- 
rents in  one  tempest,  the  police  precipitated  themselves 
on  the  whole. 

Had  any  additional  element  been  required  to  bring 
things  to  the  highest  stage  of  combativeness  this  would 
have  answered  quite  well.  As  interference  in  family 
affairs  almost  invariably  brings  the  wrath  of  both  par- 
ties down  on  the  peacemaker,  so  now  the  police  began 
to  receive  their  share  of  the  public  attention. 

The  Parisian  population  have  not  that  docile  disposi- 
tion and  submissive  respect  for  authority  characteristic 
of  our  Americans.  The  absence  of  the  night-stick  and 
ready  revolver  must  be  supplied  by  overwhelming 
physical  force.  Even  escaping  criminals  cannot  be 
shot  down  in  France  with  impunity. 

Though  deprived  of  both  clubs  and  sabres  and  not 
trusted  with  revolvers,  these  police  agents  make  good 
use  of  hands  and  feet.  Not  being  bound  by  the  rules 
of  the  ring,  their  favorite  blow  is  the  blow  below  the 
belt.  It  is  viciously  administered  by  both  foot  and 
knee.  Next  to  that  is  the  kick  on  the  shins,  which, 
delivered  by  a  heavy,  iron-shod  Cowhide  boot,  is  pretty 
apt  to  render  the  recipient  hors  de  combat.  Supple- 
mented by  a  quick  fist  and  directed  by  a  quicker  tem- 
per, the  French  police  agent  is  no  mean  antagonist 
in  a  general  row.  In  brutality  and  impulsive  cruelty 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  235 

he  is  but  the  flesh  and  blood  of  those  with  whom  he 
has  mostly  to  deal. 

The  battle  now  raged  with  increasing  violence,  the 
combatants  being  slowly  driven  down  upon  the  ap- 
proaching manifestants  from  the  Quartier  Latin,  Mont- 
martre,  and  La  Villette.  It  had  become  everybody's 
fight,  the  original  Dreyfusardes  having  been  largely 
eliminated  by  nationaliste  clubs  and  police  arrests. 
The  ambulances  and  cellular  vans,  playfully  termed 
"  salad-baskets,"  thoughtfully  stationed  in  the  side 
streets,  were  being  rapidly  filled,  and  as  fast  as  filled 
were  driven  to  hospital  and  prison  respectively. 

The  reverberating  roar  of  human  voices  beat  against 
the  tall  buildings,  rising  and  falling  in  frightful  diapa- 
son, as  if  it  were  the  echo  from  a  thousand  savage 
creatures  of  the  jungle  clashing  their  fangs  in  deadly 
combat. 

Jean  Marot  and  his  immediate  followers  had  scarcely 
turned  from  the  scene  at  the  cafe  before  they  were 
swallowed  up  in  the  vortex  that  now  met  them.  In- 
deed, Jean  had  not  witnessed  either  the  horrible  bru- 
tality of  the  butcher  or  his  punishment.  The  cries  of 
"  Les  agents !  a  bas  les  agents !"  had  suddenly  car- 
ried him  elsewhere  on  the  field  of  battle.  He  found 
himself,  fired  by  the  fever  of  conflict,  in  the  middle 
of  the  broad  street  so  closely  surrounded  by  friends 
and  foes  that  sticks  were  encumbrances.  A  short  arm 
blow  only  was  now  and  then  effective.  A  dozen  police 
agents  were  underfoot  somewhere,  being  pitilessly 
stamped  and  trampled  by  the  frantic  mob.  The  pla- 
toon that  had  charged  was  wiped  out  as  a  platoon. 
Those  who  were  hemmed  in  fought  like  demons.  Men 


236  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

throttled  each  other  and  swayed  back  and  forth  and 
yelled  imprecations  and  fell  in  struggling  masses  and 
got  upon  their  feet  again  and  twisted  and  squirmed 
and  panted,  like  so  many  monsters,  half  serpent  and 
half  beast,  seeking  to  bury  their  fangs  in  some  vital 
part  or  tear  each  other  limb  from  limb. 

Suddenly  Jean  saw  rise  before  him  a  face  that  drove 
everything  else  from  his  mind.  It  was  that  of  one 
who  saw  him  at  the  same  instant.  And  when  these 
bloodshot  eyes  of  passion  met  a  fierce  yell  of  wrath 
burst  from  the  two  men. 

It  was  Henri  Lerouge. 

He  was  hatless  and  his  clothes  were  in  shreds  and 
covered  with  the  grime  of  the  street.  His  hair  was 
matted  with  coagulated  blood, — his  lips  were  swollen 
hideously.  A  police  agent  in  about  the  same  con- 
dition held  him  by  the  throat. 

When  Henri  Lerouge  saw  Jean  Marot  he  seemed 
imbued  with  the  strength  of  a  giant  and  the  agility 
of  a  cat.  He  shook  off  the  grip  of  the  agent  as  if  it 
were  that  of  a  child  and  at  a  bound  cleared  the  strug- 
gling group  that  separated  him  from  his  former  friend. 

They  grappled  without  a  word  and  without  a  blow, 
and,  linked  in  the  embrace  of  mortal  hatred,  rolled 
together  in  the  dust. 

The  cruel  human  waves  broke  over  them  and  rolled 
on  and  receded,  and  went  and  came  again,  and  eddied 
and  seethed  and  roared  above  them. 

These  two  rose  no  more. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

WHEN  the  police,  supported  by  the  Garde  de  Paris, 
had  finally  swept  the  boulevard  clear  of  the  mob,  they 
found  among  the  human  debris  two  men  locked  in  each 
other's  grasp,  insensible.  The  imprint  on  two  throats 
showed  with  what  desperate  ferocity  they  had  clung 
to  each  other.  Indeed,  their  hands  were  scarcely  yet 
relaxed  from  exhaustion.  Their  faces  were  black  and 
their  tongues  protruded. 

In  the  nearest  pharmacy,  where  ambulances  were 
being  awaited  by  a  dozen  others,  Jean  Marot  quickly 
revived  under  treatment.  The  case  of  Henri  Lerouge, 
however,  was  more  serious.  He  had  received  a  severe 
cut  in  the  head  early  in  the  row  and  the  young  sur- 
geon in  charge  feared  internal  injuries.  Artificial 
means  were  required  to  induce  respiration.  This  was 
restored  slowly  and  laboriously.  At  the  first  sign  of 
life  he  murmured, — 

"  Andree !    Sister !    Ah !   my  poor  little  sister !" 

Jean  roused  himself.  The  sounds  of  voices  and 
wheels  came  to  him  indistinctly.  Everything  merged 
in  these  words, — 

"Andree!    Sister!" 

Then  again  all  was  blank. 

When  he  revived  he  was  first  of  all  conscious  of  a 
gentle  feminine  touch, — that  subtle  something  which 
cools  the  fevered  veins  and  softens  the  pangs  of  suffer- 
ing, mind  and  body. 

He  felt  it  rather  as  if  it  were  a  dream,  and  kept  his 
eyes  closed  for  fear  the  dream  would  vanish.  The 

237 


238  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

hand  softly  bathed  his  head,  which  consciously  lay  in 
a  woman's  lap.  He  remembered  but  one  hand — his 
mother's — that  had  soothed  him  thus,  and  the  sweet 
souvenir  provoked  a  deep  sigh. 

"  Ah !  mon  Dieu !"  murmured  the  voice  of  Mile. 
Fouchette. 

"  L'hopital  ou  depot?"  inquired  the  nearest  agent. 

"  Depot,"  said  the  sous-brigadier. 

"  Oh !  no !  no !"  exclaimed  the  girl,  indignantly. 
"  See,  messieurs ;  he  is  wounded  and  weak,  and — 

"  One  moment !" 

A  young  surgeon  knelt  and  applied  his  ear  to  the 
heaving  breast,  while  the  police  agents  whispered 
among  each  other. 

Mile.  Fouchette  caught  the  words,  "  It  is  La  Sava- 
tiere,"  and  smiled  faintly,  but  was  at  once  recalled  to 
the  situation  by  a  pair  of  open  eyes  through  which 
Jean  Marot  regarded  her  intently. 

"  So !  It — it  is  only  Mademoiselle  Fouchette. 
I " 

He  saw  the  cloud  that  rose  upon  her  face  and  heard 
the  gentle  humility  of  her  reply, — 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  it  is  only  Fouchette.  How  do  you 
find  yourself,  Monsieur  Jean  ?" 

She  put  a  flask  of  brandy  to  his  lips  and  saw  him 
swallow  a  mouthful  mechanically.  Suddenly  he  raised 
himself  to  a  sitting  posture  and  looked  anxiously 
about. 

"Where  is  he?" 

"  Who  ?    Where  is  who,  monsieur  ?" 

"  Lerouge.  Why,  he  was  here  but  now.  Where  is 
he?" 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  239 

"  Lerouge !  That  wretch !"  cried  the  girl,  with  pas- 
sion. "  I  could  strangle  him !" 

"  Oh !  no,  no,  no !"  he  interposed."  It  is  a  mistake. 
His  sister,  Fouchette " 

His  glance  was  more  than  she  could  bear.     She 
would  have  drawn  him  back  to  her  as  a  mother  protects 
a  sick  child,  only  a  rough  hand  interposed. 
«  "  See !  he  raves,  messieurs." 

"  Let  him  rave  some  more,"  said  the  sous-brigadier. 
"  This  is  our  affair.  So  it  was  Monsieur  Lerouge,  was 
it?  Very  good!  Henri  Lerouge,  medical  student, 
Quartier  Latin,  anarchist,  turbulent  fellow,  rascal, — 
well  cracked  this  time !" 

Jean  looked  from  the  girl  to  the  man  and  laid  him- 
self back  in  her  arms  without  a  word. 

"  Make  a  note,"  continued  the  police  official, — "  bad 
characters,  both.  This  man  goes  to  depot !" 

"  For  shame !"  cried  Mile.  Fouchette. 

"  And  hear  this !"  added  the  sous-brigadier  in  an 
angry  voice, — "  if  this  grisette  of  Rue  St.  Jacques  gives 
you  any  of  her  guff  run  her  in !" 

"  But — no,  monsieur,  that  you  will  not !  My  busi- 
ness is  here, — my  authority  above  your  authority, — and 
here  I  will  remain !" 

"  Show  it !"  demanded  the  official. 

She  regarded  him  wrathfully. 

"  Very  well,  mademoiselle,"  said  he,  choking  back 
his  anger.  "  I  know  my  duty  and  will  not  be  inter- 
fered with  by " 

"  Gare  a  vous !"  she  interrupted,  threateningly. 

"  Don't !"  whispered  Jean.  "  It  is  nothing.  But  tell 
me  quickly, — has  Lerouge  gone  to  prison  ?" 


240  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"Hotel  Dieu,"  she  replied. 

"  Good !  Go  to  his  place,  7  Rue  Dareau,  you  know, 
— tell  her, — Mademoiselle  Remy, — his  sister,  Fou- 
chette " 

She  bent  lower  over  his  head,  hiding  her  face  from 
his  sight. 

"  Ah !  what  a  fool  I  have  been,  Fouchette !  Tell  her 
gently — that  he  is  injured — slightly,  mind — and  where, 
he  is.  That's  a  good  girl,  Fouchette, — good  girl  that 
you  are !" 

He  could  not  see  her  face  for  the  hair  that  fell  bver 
the  bowed  head, — the  living  picture  of  the  repentant 
Magdalen.  But  he  felt  her  warm  breath  upon  his 
cheek,  and,  was  it  a  tear  that  splashed  hotly  on  his 
neck? 

But  she  merely  pressed  his  hand  for  a  reply  and, 
disengaging  her  dress,  darted  from  the  place. 

Threading  her  way  rapidly  among  the  arriving  and 
departing  vans  and  ambulances,  the  scattered  remnants 
of  the  mob  and  the  swarms  of  shifting  police  agents, 
Mile.  Fouchette  finally  reached  a  street  open  to  traffic. 

It  was  only  at  rare  intervals  that  she  indulged  her- 
self in  a  cab.  This  was  one  of  the  limes.  Hailing  the 
first-comer,  she  jumped  in  and  called  out  to  the  fat 
cabby,  "  Place  Monge." 

He  drove  thoughtfully  as  far  as  the  next  corner  and 
then  inquired  over  his  shoulder  where  Place  Monge 
was.  She  stood  up  behind  him  and  fairly  screamed  in 
his  ear, — 

"  Square  Monge,  espece  de  melon !  Quartier  Latin  !" 

The  bony  horse  started  up  at  the  sound  of  her  voice 
as  from  the  lash.  Evidently,  Mile.  Fouchette  was  not 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  241 

in  good  temper.  She  had  no  relish  for  the  work  of 
good-will  cut  out  for  her.  She  was  disgusted  at  the 
weakness  of  man.  If  she  had  been  driver  at  that  mo- 
ment she  would  have  run  down  a  few  of  them  en 
route.  Still,  her  cocher  did  his  best. 

At  Place  du  Parvis  Notre  Dame  she  called  out  to  him 
to  stop.  Getting  out,  she  bade  him  wait  near  by,  and 
started  down  along  the  quai  in  front  of  the  Prefecture 
de  Police.  The  man  seemed  suspicious  and  kept  a 
sharp  eye  on  his  fare.  Just  as  he  was  about  to  follow 
the  girl  he  saw  her  start  back,  as  if  she  had  changed 
her  mind. 

She  began  to  walk  very  rapidly  towards  him,  looking 
neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left.  A  man  in  a  soft  hat 
who  had  just  left  the  Prefecture  crossed  the  street  in 
the  opposite  direction  and,  curiously  enough,  though 
there  was  an  empty  desert  of  space  in  the  vicinity,  the 
two  jostled  each  other  almost  rudely  and  exchanged 
angry  words. 

After  which  the  girl  retook  her  place  in  the  fiacre  and 
said  "  Allons !"  in  a  subdued  tone  that  strongly  con- 
trasted with  her  former  ascerbity. 

"  Sure!"  said  the  cabby  to  himself, — "  she's  drunk." 
And  he  looked  forward  to  the  near  future  rather 
gloomily. 

His  suspicion  seemed  more  than  justified  when  she 
again  said  Place  Monge  instead  of  Square  Monge,  the 
former  being  nearly  half  a  mile  farther.  He  almost 
collapsed  when  she  finally  got  down  and  not  only 
handed  him  the  legal  fare  without  dispute  but  double 
the  usual  pourboire. 

"  Toujours  d«  raeme  ces  femmes-la !"  he  growled, 
16 


242  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

philosophically.  Which  meant  that  women  were  pretty 
much  alike, — you  never  could  tell  what  one  of  them 
would  do. 

Mile.  Fouchette,  quite  indifferent  at  any  time  to  the 
private  judgment  of  the  cab-driving  world,  now  silently 
and  swiftly  pursued  the  uneven  tenor  of  her  thoughts, 
not  yet  manifest.  She  hurried  along  the  sombre  walls 
of  the  giant  caserne  de  la  garde  on  the  Rue  Ortolan, 
plunged  across  the  crowded  Rue  Mouffetard,  and  en- 
tered the  picturesque  little  wine-shop  on  the  corner. 

It  was  a  low,  grim,  two-story  affair  in  time-worn 
stone,  the  door  and  windows  heavily  grilled  in  the 
elaborate  and  artistic  wrought-iron  work  of  the  middle 
ages.  A  heavy  oaken  door  supplemented  the  big 
barred  gate  and  added  to  the  ancient  prison-like  ap- 
pearance of  the  place.  Against  the  grilles  of  the  Rue 
Mouffetard  hung  specimens  of  tne  filthy  illustrated 
Paris  papers,  either  the  pictures  or  text  of  which  would 
debar  them  from  any  respectable  English-speaking 
community.  Over  the  door  opening  into  the  Rue  du 
Pot  de  Fer  and  below  a  lamp  of  that  exquisite  iron- 
work which  is  now  one  of  the  lost  arts  was  displayed 
a  small  bush,  intimating  that,  in  spite  of  the  strong 
improbability,  good  wine  was  to  be  had  inside. 

While  a  casual  glance  showed  that  the  rooms  above 
could  not  be  high  enough  of  ceiling  for  an  ordinary 
individual  to  stand  upright,  the  flowers  in  the  little 
square  recessed  and  grilled  windows  showed  that  this 
upper  portion  was  inhabited.  It  was  connected  with 
the  wine-shop  below  by  a  narrow  and  very  much  worn 
stone  staircase,  which  ascended  "  a  tire-bouchon,"  or 
corkscrew  fashion,  like  the  steep  steps  of  a  light-house. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  243 

As  to  the  general  reputation  of  the  neighborhood, 
Mile.  Fouchette  knew  it  to  be  "  assez  mauvaise," — 
tolerably  bad, — though  it  was  not  this  knowledge  that 
induced  her  to  complete  her  journey  on  foot. 

Her  entrance  caused  a  subdued  but  perceptible  flut- 
ter among  the  occupants  of  the  resort.  These  were, 
at  the  moment,  four  respectable-looking  men  in  blouses, 
an  old  gentleman  in  the  last  stage  of  genteel  rustiness, 
and  a  couple  of  camelots  in  the  second  stage  of 
drunkenness, — that  of  undying  friendship.  The  four, 
who  appeared  to  be  worthy  tradesmen  of  the  neighbor- 
hood, occupied  a  far  table  in  the  small  and  time-be- 
grimed room,  where  they  played  at  cards  for  small 
stakes ;  the  rusty  old  gentleman  sat  alone  with  a  half- 
emptied  beer-glass  and  an  evening  newspaper  before 
him;  the  street-hawkers  were  standing  at  the  zinc, 
which  in  Paris  represents  our  American  bar,  discussing 
the  events  of  the  day  in  the  hoarse-lunged,  insolent 
tone  of  their  class. 

Presiding  over  the  establishment  was — yes,  it  was 
Madame  Podvin.  Somewhat  stouter,  redder  of  face, 
more  piggy  of  eye,  with  more  decided  whiskers,  but 
still  Madame  Podvin. 

She  busied  herself  behind  the  zinc  washing  glasses, 
occasionally  glancing  at  the  men  in  the  corner,  smiling 
upon  the  inebriated  camelots,  and  now  and  then  cast- 
ing a  suspicious  eye  upon  the  quiet  old  gentleman  be- 
hind his  beer. 

Madame  Podvin  had  retired  from  the  Rendez-Vous 
pour  Cochers  upon  the  retirement  of  Monsieur  Podvin 
from  public  life  by  the  State,  and  had  found  this  con- 
genial city  resort  vacant  by  reason  of  death, — the  pro- 


244  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

prietor  having  been  stabbed  by  one  of  his  friendly  cus- 
tomers over  the  question  of  pay  for  a  drink  of  four 
sous. 

Upon  the  entrance  of  Mile.  Fouchette  Madame  Pod- 
vin  tapped  the  zinc  sharply  with  the  glass  as  if  to 
knock  something  out  of  it,  then  greeted  the  new-comer 
effusively. 

The  four  men  hastily  gathered  up  their  stakes  and 
began  talking  about  the  weather;  the  subdued  came- 
lots  sipped  their  absinthe  in  silence ;  the  old  gentleman 
fell  to  reading  his  paper  with  renewed  interest. 

"  Bon  jour,  madame,"  said  Mile.  Fouchette,  smilingly 
ignoring  the  private  signal,  though  inwardly  vexed. 

"  Mademoiselle  Fouchette !  Ah !  how  charming  of 
you!"  exclaimed  Madame  Podvin,  hastily  wiping  her 
hands  and  coming  around  the  open  end  of  the  bar  to 
embrace  her  visitor. 

Beneath  the  most  elaborate  politeness  the  Parisian 
conceals  the  bitterest  hatred.  French  politeness  is 
mostly  superficial  at  best, — it  often  scarcely  hides  a 
cynicism  that  stings  without  words,  a  satire  that  bites 
to  the  verge  of  insult.  The  more  Frenchwomen  dis- 
like each  other  the  more  formal  and  overpowering  their 
compliments — if  they  do  not  come  to  blows. 

"  Thank  you  very  much,  madame,"  Mile.  Fouchette 
replied,  as  Madame  Podvin  kissed  her  cheeks.  "  Ah ! 
you  are  always  so  gay  and  delightful,  madame !" 

"  And  how  lovely  you  have  grown  to  be !"  exclaimed 
the  Podvin,  with  a  good  show  of  enthusiasm,  holding 
the  girl  off  at  arm's  length  for  inspection.  "  It  seems 
impossible  that  you  should  have  come  out  of  a  rag- 
heap!  And  your  sweet  disposition " 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  245 

Madame  Podvin  elevated  her  hands  in  sheer  despair 
of  being  able  to  describe  it. 

"  It  must  go  well  with  you,  madame,  you  are  always 
so  amiable  and  cheerful,"  retorted  Mile.  Fouchette. 

"  But  you  are  more  lovely  every  day  you  grow 
older,"  said  Madame  Podvin. 

"  Ah !    Madame  does  not  grow  older !" 

"  Fouchette,  cherie,  I'm  sure  you  must  belong  to  a 
good  family,  you  are  so  naturally  winning  and  well- 
bred.  The  clothes  you  had  on  when  I  found  you " 

"Madame?" 

"  I  gave  them  away — for  twenty — yes,  it  was  twenty 
francs — they  were  not  worth  as  many  sous — to  a  gen- 
tleman  " 

Madame  Podvin  stopped  at  the  sight  of  Mile.  Fou- 
chette's  face;  but,  uncertain  whether  the  subject 
pained,  interested,  or  irritated  the  latter,  she  con- 
tinued,  

"  It  was  shortly  after  you  left.  He  was  very  curi- 
ous,— one  of  these  government  spies,  you  know,  Fou- 
chette  " 

"  Madame,  I  would  see  Mademoiselle  Madeleine," 
interrupted  the  other. 

Madame  Podvin  frowned. 

"  Not  sick,  I  hope,"  added  Fouchette. 

"Oh!  no;  only " 

"Drinking?" 

"Like  a  fish!" 

"  Poor  Madeleine !" 

"  She's  a  beast !"  cried  Madame  Podvin. 

Madame  Podvin  sold  vile  liquor  but  despised  the 
fools  who  drank  it,  and  in  this  she  was  not  singular. 


246  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  Is  she "  Mile.  Fouchette  raised  her  eyes 

heavenward  inquiringly. 

"  No, — she's  in  the  street.  Ever  since  she  got  out 
of  the  hospital  she  has  been  going  from  bad  to  worse 
every  day.  And  she  owes  me  two  weeks'  lodging.  If 
she  doesn't  pay  up  soon  I'll " 

Whatever  the  Podvin  intended  to  do  with  Madeleine 
she  left  it  unsaid,  for  the  latter  stood  in  the  doorway. 

Great,  indeed,  was  the  change  which  had  come  over 
this  unfortunate  girl.  Stout  to  repulsiveness,  shabby 
of  attire,  fiery  of  face,  unsteady  of  pose,  with  one 
bright  beautiful  eye  burning  with  the  supernatural  fire 
of  absinthe,  the  other  sealed  in  internal  darkness. 

"  Oh !  Madeleine "  began  Mile.  Fouchette,  pain- 
fully impressed  and  hesitating. 

"  What !    No !    Fouchette  ?    Mon  ange !" 

The  drunken  woman  staggered  forward  to  embrace 
her  friend. 

"  Why,  Madeleine— 

"  Hold !  And  first  tell  me  your  bad  news.  You 
know  you  always  bring  me  bad  news,  deary.  You  hunt 
me  up  when  you  have  bad  news.  Come,  now !" 

"  La,  la,  la,  la !"  trilled  Mile.  Fouchette,  passing  her 
arm  around  the  other's  thick  waist  to  gain  time. 

"  Come !  mon  ange, — we'll  have  a  drink  anyhow. 
Mere !  some  absinthe, — we  have  thirst." 

"  No,  no ;  not  now,  Madeleine." 

"  Not  a  drop  here !"  said  Madame  Podvin,  seeing 
that  Mile.  Fouchette  was  not  disposed  to  pay. 

"  Not  now,"  interposed  the  latter, — "  a  little  later. 
I  want  a  word  or  two  with  you,  Madeleine,  first.  Just 
two  minutes !" 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  247 

The  one  brilliant  orb  regarded  the  girl  intently,  as 
if  it  would  dive  into  her  soul ;  but  the  habitual  good- 
nature yielded. 

"  Very  well.    Come  then,  cherie, — a  1'imperiale !" 

And,  indeed,  the  narrow,  spiral  stair  more  closely 
resembled  that  which  leads  to  the  imperiale  of  the  Paris 
omnibus  than  anything  found  in  the  modern  house. 

The  space  above  was  divided  in  four,  the  first  part 
being  the  small  antechamber,  dimly  lighted  from  the 
roof,  which  they  now  entered.  Through  a  door  to  the 
right  they  were  in  a  room  one-third  of  which  was 
already  occupied  by  an  iron  camp-bed.  The  rest  of  the 
furniture  consisted  of  a  little  iron  washstand,  a  chair, 
and  some  sort  of  a  box  covered  with  very  much  soiled 
chintz  that  was  once  pretty.  Above  this  latter  article 
of  furniture  was  a  small  shelf,  on  which  were  coquet- 
tishly  arranged  a  folding  mirror  and  other  cheap 
articles  of  toilet.  A  few  fans  of  the  cheap  Japanesque 
variety  were  pinned  here  and  there  in  painful  regu- 
larity. A  cheap  holiday  skirt  and  other  feminine  be- 
longings hung  on  the  wall  over  the  cot.  In  the  small, 
square,  recessed  window  opening  on  Rue  Mouffetard 
were  pots  of  flowering  plants  that  gave  an  air  of  re- 
finement and  comfort  to  a  place  otherwise  cheerless 
and  miserable. 

And  over  all  of  this  poverty  and  wretchedness  hung 
a  blackened  ceiling  so  low  that  the  feather  of  Mile. 
Fouchette  swept  it, — so  low  and  dark  and  heavy  and 
lugubrious  that  it  seemed  to  threaten  momentarily  to 
crush  out  what  little  human  life  and  happiness  re- 
mained there. 

Madeleine  silently  motioned  her  visitor  to  the  chair 


248  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

and  threw  herself  on  the  creaking  bed.  She  waited, 
suspiciously. 

"  The  riots,  you  know,  Madeleine,"  began  Mile. 
Fouchette. 

"  Dame !  There  is  always  rioting.  One  hears,  but 
one  doesn't  mind." 

"  Unless  one  has  friends,  Madeleine " 

The  maimed  and  half-drunken  woman  tried  to 
straighten  up. 

"  Well?  Out  with  it,  Fouchette.  If  one  has  friends 
in  the  row " 

"  Why,  then  we  feel  an  interest  in  our  friends, 
n'est-ce  pas?" 

"  It  is  about  Lerouge !" 

"  Yes,  Madeleine,  I  want " 

"Is  he  hurt?" 

"  Yes, — badly, — and  is  at  the  Hotel  Dieu.  I  want 
his  address.  He  has  moved  from  7  Rue  Dareau  since 
the  police — since " 

"  You  want  his  address  for  the  police,"  said  the  girl. 

"  Oh !  no !  no !  not  for  that,  dear !" 

"  Not  for  that ;  then  what  for  ?  Tell  me  why  you 
want  it." 

This  was  exactly  what  Mile.  Fouchette  evidently  did 
not  desire  to  do.  Madeleine  saw  it,  and  added  firmly, — 

"  Tell  me  first,  then— well,  then  I'll  see." 

"  I  will,  then,"  rejoined  the  other,  savagely. 

""Speak!" 

"  I  wish  to  notify  his  sister." 

Madeleine  looked  at  the  speaker  fixedly,  as  if  still 
waiting  for  her  to  begin ;  stupidly,  for  her  poor  mud- 
dled brain  refused  to  comprehend. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  249 

Mile.  Fouchette  continued, — 

"  I  say  I  wish  to  go  to  his  place,"  she  said,  with  great 
deliberation,  "  and  notify  his  sister  that  her  brother  is 
injured  and  is  lying  at  Hotel  Dieu.  I  promised.  It 
is  important.  Believing  you  knew  the  address  I  have 
come  to  you.  You  will  help  me,  for  his  sister's  sake, — 
for  his  sake,  Madeleine?  You  know  his  sister  lives 
with  him " 

"  You — you  said  his  sister " 

But  the  voice  choked.  The  words  came  huskily,  like 
a  death-rattle  in  her  throat. 

"  Yes,  sister,"  began  again  Mile.  Fouchette.  But 
she  was  almost  afraid  now.  The  aspect  of  her  listener's 
face  was  enough  to  touch  even  a  harder  heart  than 
possessed  this  not  too  tender  bearer  of  ill  news. 

However,  Madeleine  would  have  heard  nothing 
more.  She  gazed  vacantly  at  the  opposite  wall,  a  knee 
between  her  hands,  and  swaying  slightly  to  and  fro. 
Her  face,  bloated  with  drink,  had  become  almost  pale, 
and  was  the  picture  of  long-settled  grief.  It  was  as  if 
she  were  in  fresh  mourning  for  the  long  ago. 

Presently  a  solitary  tear  from  the  unseen  and  un- 
seeing eye  stole  out  of  its  dark  retreat  and  rolled  slowly 
and  reluctantly  down  upon  the  cheek  and  stopped  and 
dried  there. 

Mile.  Fouchette  saw  it  as  the  weather  observer  sees 
the  moisture  on  the  glass  and  speculated  on  the  char- 
acter of  the  coming  storm. 

She  was  disappointed.  For  instead  of  an  explosion 
Madeleine  suddenly  rose  and  began  fumbling  among 
the  garments  on  the  wall  without  a  word.  She  selected 
the  best  from  her  humble  wardrobe  and  laid  the  pieces 


250  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

out  one  by  one  on  the  bed,  then  began  rapidly  to  divest 
herself  of  what  she  wore. 

When  interrogated  by  the  wondering  Fouchette  she 
never  replied.  Indeed,  she  no  longer  appeared  to  no- 
tice that  her  visitor  was  there.  She  bathed  her  face, 
and  washed  her  hands,  and  scrubbed  her  white  teeth, 
and  carefully  rearranged  her  hair.  All  of  this  with  a 
calmness  and  precision  of  a  perfectly  sober  woman, — 
as  she  now  undoubtedly  was.  She  then  resumed  her 
hat. 

"  How !"  exclaimed  Mile.  Fouchette,  noting  this 
quiet  preparation  with  growing  astonishment, — "not 
going  out  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  girl. 

"  But,  dear,  you  have  not  yet  given  me  the  address." 

"  It  is  unnecessary." 

"But,  Madeleine!" 

"  It  is  unnecessary,  Fouchette.  I  will  go  and  see  his 
— his  sister  and  lead  her  to  him." 

"But,  deary!" 

"  And  I  will  go  alone,"  she  added,  looking  at  the 
other  for  the  first  time. 

Unmindful  of  the  wheedling  voice  of  remonstrance, 
without  another  word,  and  leaving  her  door  wide  open 
and  Mile.  Fouchette  to  follow  or  not  at  her  pleasure, 
the  miserable  girl  gained  the  street  and  swiftly  sped 
away  through  the  falling  shadows  of  the  night. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

JEAN  MAROT  occupied  a  cell  in  a  "  panier  a  salade" 
en  route  for  the  depot,  not  so  much  the  worse  for  his 
recent  exciting  experience  as  at  first  seemed  probable 
he  might  be. 

There  were  eight  other  occupants  of  the  prison-van 
besides  himself,  one  of  whom  was  a  soldier  guard. 
Five  narrow  cells  ranged  along  either  side  of  a  central 
aisle.  Each  had  a  solitary  small,  closely  shuttered 
breathing-hole  opening  outside.  The  guard  occupied 
a  seat  in  the  aisle  near  the  rear  door,  from  which  he 
could  survey  the  door  of  every  cell.  By  this  arrange- 
ment prisoners  were  kept  separate  from  each  other, 
were  not  subjected  to  a  gaping  crowd,  and  ten  per- 
sons could  be  safely  escorted  by  a  single  guard. 

From  the  half-suppressed  murmurs  and  objurgations 
that  followed  every  severe  jolt  of  the  wagon,  Jean 
rightly  judged  that  most  of  the  prisoners  were  more  or 
less  injured.  And  as  the  driver  drove  furiously, 
having  the  right  of  way  and  being  pressed  with  busi- 
ness this  particular  Sunday  afternoon,  there  were  still 
louder  and  more  exhaustive  remarks  from  those  who 
narrowly  escaped  being  run  over  by  the  cellular  van. 

Jean  Marot,  however,  was  too  much  engrossed  with 
his  own  miserable  reflections  to  pay  any  more  than 
mechanical  attention  to  all  of  this.  Physically  resusci- 
tated and  momentarily  inflating  his  glad  lungs  anew, 
he  still  felt  that  terrible  vice-like  grip  upon  his  throat, 
— the  compression  of  the  fingers  of  steel  that  seemed  to 
squeeze  the  last  drop  of  blood  from  his  heart. 

But  it  was  mental  suffocation  now.  For  they  were 

251 


252  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

the  fingers  of  her  brother, — the  flesh  and  sinew  of  the 
woman  he  loved !  And  it  was  this  love  that  was  being 
cruelly  crushed  and  strangled. 

It  was  more  terrible  than  the  late  physical  struggle. 
The  latter  had  invoked  the  energy,  the  courage,  and 
the  superhuman  strength  and  endurance  to  meet  it, — 
had  roused  the  fire  of  conscious  manhood.  Now  the 
sick  soul  revolted  at  its  own  folly.  The  props  of  self- 
respect  had  been  knocked  away,  and  he  lay  prone,  hu- 
miliated, deprived  of  the  initial  courage  to  rise  and 
hope. 

The  chief  cause  of  this  self-degradation  lay  in  the 
fact  that  he  had  grievously  wronged  the  only  one  in 
the  world  he  had  found  worth  loving, — the  one  sweet 
being  for  whom  he  would  have  willingly  sacrificed 
life.  The  fact  that  this  wrong  was  by  and  in  thought 
alone  did  not  lessen  the  horrible  injustice  of  it. 

The  more  Jean  thought  of  these  things  the  more 
sick  at  heart  he  was,  the  more  hopeless  his  love 
became,  the  more  desperately  dark  the  future  ap- 
peared. There  seemed  to  be  nothing  left  but  misery 
and  death. 

This  train  of  bitterness  was  interrupted  by  a  violent 
wrangle  between  the  occupants  of  neighboring  cells. 
A  prisoner  across  the  way  had  shouted  "  Vive  1'ar- 
mee!"  Another  responded  by  the  gay  chanson, — 

"  Entre  nous,  1'armee  du  salut, 
Elle  n'a  jamais  eu  d'autre  but 
Que  d'amasser  d'  la  bonne  galette." 

It  came  from  his  next-door  neighbor,  and  was  the 
familiar  voice  of  the  saturnine  George  Villeroy. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  253 

"  Shut  your  mouth,  rascal !"  yelled  the  guard,  rap- 
ping the  cell  door  with  his  sword  bayonet. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  van  was  stopped,  the  rear 
door  opened,  and  one  by  one  the  prisoners,  bloody, 
torn,  and  bedraggled,  were  handed  out  and  hustled 
not  very  gently  by  two  police  agents  through  a  heavily 
grilled  doorway  into  a  room  already  crowded  with 
victims  of  law  and  order.  All  of  these  were  yet  to  be 
called  before  the  commissaire  and  interrogated  in  turn, 
and  by  him  either  held  or  discharged.  A  good  many 
were  both  hatless  and  coatless,  and  altogether  they 
certainly  bore  a  riotous  and  suspicious  look. 

In  the  crowd  near  the  desk  where  they  were  led  to 
be  registered  Jean  met  his  old  friend  Villeroy. 

"  Oho !"  exclaimed  the  latter,  laughingly. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  it  is  I,  my  friend." 

"  Pinched  this  time,  hein?" 

"  So  it  seems." 

"  And  in  what  company?" 

"  Yours,  I  suppose,"  retorted  Jean. 

"  Good  company !"  said  Villeroy.  "  Kill  any — any 
agents  ?" 

"  No, — no !"  said  Jean,  who  did  not  relish  this  sub- 
ject. 

"SeeLerouge?" 

"  N— that  is— 

"  The  miserable !" 
Oh,  as  for  that- 


"  Well,  he's  done  for,  anyhow." 

"Wha-at?" 

"  His  goose  is  cooked !" 

"How  is  that?    Not " 


254  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  Dead." 

"Dead!" 

"  As  a  mackerel !" 

Jean  paled  perceptibly  and  almost  staggered  against 
his  friend. 

"  Impossible !"  he  murmured.  "  It  can't  be ! 
How " 

"  Oh,  easy  enough,"  interrupted  the  other,  lightly. 
"  Some  ruffian  choked  him  to  death,  they  say.  Liable 
to  occur,  is  it  not  ?  Sorry,  of  course,  but 

Fortunately  for  Jean's  self-control,  they  were  rudely 
separated  by  two  angry  opponents  who  wanted  to  fight 
it  out  then  and  there.  He  would  have  betrayed  him- 
self in  another  moment.  And,  wrought  up  to  the  pres- 
ent tension,  it  seemed  as  if  he  must  go  mad  and  shriek 
his  guilt  to  all  the  world. 

He  sought  an  obscure  corner  and  sat  down  on  the 
floor  with  his  back  to  the  wall,  his  chin  upon  his 
knees. 

In  his  own  soul  he  was  condemned  already.  He  only 
awaited  the  guillotine. 

When  he  was  aroused  the  room  was  almost  cleared. 
A  couple  of  agents  roughly  hustled  him  before  the  busy 
commissaire.  It  was  the  old  official  the  student  had 
struck  that  morning.  The  red  welt  across  his  face  gave 
it  a  sinister  appearance.  He  glanced  at  the  arraigned, 
then  read  from  the  blotter, — 

"  Jean  Marot,  student, — um,  um,  um ! — charged  with 
. — with — let's  see — with  uttering  seditious  cries  calcu- 
lated to  lead  to  a  breach  of  the  peace.  What  have  you 
got  to  say  for  yourself,  young  man  ?" 

The  prisoner  had  nothing  to  say  for  himself, — at 
least,  nothing  better  than  that,— so  he  was  speechless. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  255 

"  Ah !  evidently  never  been  here  before,"  said  the 
old  commissaire.  "  Go !  and  never  come  here  again. 
Discharged.  Call  the  next." 

"  Monsieur  le  Commissaire,"  began  a  police  agent 
who  had  here  risen  to  his  feet  with  an  air  of  remon- 
strance,— "  monsieur " 

"  Call  the  next !"  said  the  commissaire,  waving  the 
agent  down  peremptorily. 

And  thus  Jean  Marot,  before  he  had  recovered  from 
his  surprise,  or  could  even  realize  what  had  happened, 
was  again  hustled  through  the  corridor,  this  time  to 
be  unceremoniously  thrust  into  the  street — a  free  man. 

"  Hold,  Monsieur  Jean !"  said  the  lively  voice  of 
Mile.  Fouchette.  "  What  a  precious  long  time  you 
have  been !" 

"  It  might  have  been  longer,"  he  remarked,  vaguely 
accepting  her  presence  as  not  unnatural,  and  suffering 
himself  to  be  led  down  the  block. 

"  Oh,  here  it  is,"  said  she,  going  straight  to  a  cab  in 
waiting.  "  Now,  don't  stop  to  ask  questions  or  I'll  be 
wicked.  Get  in !  Dinner  is " 

"  Dinner  is,  is  it  ?"  he  repeated,  almost  hysterically. 

He  felt  exhausted  physically  and  mentally,  indiffer- 
ent as  to  what  now  befell  him,  prepared  to  accept  any- 
thing. Nothing  could  be  worse.  He  felt  as  if  every- 
thing was  crumbling  beneath  his  feet.  There  was 
nobody  to  lean  against,  nobody  to  sympathize  with 
him,  nobody  to  care  one  way  or  the  other,  or 

Only  this  girl  at  his  side. 

He  looked  at  her  wonderingly,  now  that  he  came  to 
think  of  her.  The  thin,  insignificant  figure,  the  pale 
face,  the  drooping  blonde  hair  lying  demurely  on  the 
cheeks,  the  bright  steel-blue  eyes,  the  pussycat  purr 


256  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

:=  "  How  absurd  you  are,  Monsieur  Jean,  with  that 
awful  face!  One  would  think  it  was  because  of  the 
prospect  of  my  dinner !" 

"  I  am  thinking  of  you,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  thanks,  monsieur !  And  so  savagely — I  have 
fear!" 

She  laughed  gleefully,  and  affected  to  move  away 
from  him,  only,  at  that  instant,  the  hind  wheel  of  the 
voiture  struck  a  stray  bowlder,  and  the  shock  threw 
her  bodily  back  against  him. 

Both  laughed  now. 

"  It  is  provoking,"  she  said. 

"  It  is  the  fatality,"  said  he. 

And  he  put  his  arm  about  her  slender  form  and  held 
her  there  without  protest. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  you,  mon  enfant,"  he  continued, 
"  and  of  what  a  dear,  good  little  thing  you  are.  Made- 
moiselle, you  are  an  angel !" 

"  Ah !  no,  monsieur !"  she  answered,  in  a  voice 
that  trembled  •  a  little, — "  do  not  believe  it !  I'm  a 
devil!" 

It  is  easy  for  a  man  in  deep  trouble  to  accept  the 
first  sympathetic  woman  as  something  angelic.  And 
now,  in  his  gratitude,  it  was  perhaps  natural  that  Jean 
should  unhesitatingly  supply  Mile.  Fouchette  with 
wings.  He  had  humbled  himself  in  the  dust,  from 
which  point  of  view  all  virtues  look  beautiful  and  all 
good  actions  partake  of  heaven.  His  response  to  her 
self-depreciation  was  a  human  one.  He  drew  her 
closer  and  kissed  her  lips. 

In  this  he  deceived  neither  himself  nor  the  girl.  She 
knew  quite  as  well  as  he  where  his  heart  was.  It  was 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  257 

a  kiss  of  gratitude  and  of  good-will,  and  was  received  * 
as  such  without  affectation.  In  his  masculine  egotism, 
however,  he  quite  overlooked  any  possible  good  or  ill 
to  her  in  the  matter, — his  consideration  began  and 
ended  in  the  gratification  of  her  conduct  towards  him. 
And  he  would  have  been  cold  indeed  not  to  feel  the 
friendly  glow  which  answers  so  eloquently  the  touch 
of  womanly  gentleness  and  sympathy. 

As  for  Mile.  Fouchette,  it  must  be  admitted  that  this 
platonic  caress  created  in  her  maidenly  bosom  a  ner- 
vous thrill  of  pleasure  not  quite  consistent  in  a  young 
woman  known  to  give  the  "  savate"  to  young  gentle- 
men who  approached  such  familiarity,  and  who  plumed 
herself  on  her  invulnerability  to  the  masculine  wiles 
that  beset  her  sex.  And  what  might  have  been  deemed 
still  more  foreign  to  her  nature,  she  never  said  a  word 
from  that  moment  until  the  voiture  drew  up  in  front 
of  her  place  of  residence  in  the  venerable  but  not  ven- 
erated Rue  St.  Jacques. 

"  Voila !"  she  then  exclaimed,  though  it  had  not  the 
tone  of  entire  satisfaction. 

"  Hold  on,  little  one,  I  will  pay " 

But  he  discovered  that  those  who  had  cared  for  him 
had  also  benevolently  relieved  him  of  his  valuables. 
He  had  not  a  sou. 

"  The  wretches !"  cried  the  girl. 

"  They  might  have  left  me  my  keys,  at  least,"  he 
muttered. 

"  And  your  watch,  monsieur  ?"  she  asked,  apprehen- 
sively. 

"  Gone,  of  course !" 

"  Oh,  the  miserable  cowards !" 
17 


258  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

He  was  less  moved  than  she  at  the  loss.  It  seemed 
trifling  by  the  side  of  his  other  misfortunes. 

But  the  coachman  was  interested.  He  carefully 
noted  the  number  of  the  house  again,  and  when  she 
passed  up  his  fare  looked  into  her  face  with  a  know- 
ing leer. 

"  If  monsieur  wishes  to  go  back  to  the  Prefecture," 
he  said  to  her,  tentatively. 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Jean. 

The  girl,  however,  understood  the  significance  of 
this  inquiry,  and  coldly  demanded  the  man's  number. 

"  If  Mademoiselle  Fouchette  should  need  you  again," 
she  added,  putting  the  slip  in  her  pocket,  "  she  will 
know  where  to  find  you." 

And  to  the  manifest  astonishment  of  the  cabman, 
who  could  not  divine  what  a  woman  of  Rue  St.  Jacques 
would  want  with  a  man  without  money,  or  at  least 
valuables,  she  slipped,  her  arm  through  Jean's  and  en- 
tered the  house. 

The  shaded  lamp  turned  low  threw  a  dim  light  over 
a  little  table  simply  but  neatly  set  for  two  in  Mile.  Fou- 
chette's  chamber.  A  cold  cut  of  beef,  some  delicate 
slices  of  boiled  tongue,  an  open  box  of  sardines,  a 
plate  heaped  with  cold  red  cabbage,  a  lemon,  olives, 
etc., — all  fresh  from  the  rotisserie  and  charcuterie 
below, — were  flanked  by  a  metre  of  bread  and  a  litre 
of  Bordeaux.  The  spread  looked  quite  appetizing  and 
formidable. 

Absorbed  as  he  was  in  himself,  Jean  could  not  but 
note  the  certainty  implied  in  all  of  this  preparation. 
Mile.  Fouchette  could  not  have  known  that  he  would 
be  at  liberty,  yet  she  had  arranged  things  exactly  as  if 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  259 

she  had  possessed  this  foreknowledge.  If  they  had 
not  made  a  mistake  and  let  him  off  so  easily 

"  You  were,  then,  sure  I  would  come  ?" 

"  Very  sure,"  said  she,  without  turning  from  the 
small  mirror  where  she  readjusted  her  hair. 

"  Now,  Monsieur  Jean,"  she  began,  in  a  nervous, 
business-like  way,  suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  "  I'm 
the  doctor.  You  are  to  do  just  as  I  tell  you.  First  you 
take  this  good  American  whiskey,  then  you  lie  down — 
here — there — that  way, — voila !" 

«  But " 

"  No !"  putting  her  delicate  hand  over  his  mouth 
gently, — "  you  are  not  to  talk,  you  know." 

He  stretched  himself  at  full  length  on  the  low  couch 
without  another  protest.  She  brought  a  towel  and 
basin  and,  removing  the  collar  which  had  been  twisted 
into  a  dirty  rope,  bathed  his  face  and  neck.  She  saw 
the  red  imprint  of  fingers  on  his  throat  with  mingled 
hatred  and  commiseration ;  but  she  said  nothing,  only 
pressing  the  wet  towel  to  the  spot  tenderly.  In  the 
place  of  the  collar  she  put  a  piece  of  soft  flannel  satu- 
rated with  cologne,  and  passed  a  silk  scarf  around  the 
neck  to  hold  it  there.  With  comb  and  brush  she  softly 
smoothed  out  his  hair,  half  toying  with  the  locks  about 
the  temples,  and  perching  her  little  head  this  way  and 
that,  as  if  to  more  accurately  study  the  effect. 

"  Ah !  now  that  looks  better.  Monsieur  is  begin- 
ning to  look  civilized." 

She  carefully  pinned  the  ends  of  the  scarf  down  over 
the  shirt-front  to  hide  the  blood  that  was  there. 

All  of  this  with  a  hundred  exclamations  and  little 
comments  and  questions  that  required  no  answers,  and 


26o  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

broken  sentences  of  pity,  of  raillery,  of  pleasure,  that 
had  no  beginning  and  no  ending  as  grammatical  con- 
structions. 

Purr,  purr,  purr. 

Finally  she  rubbed  his  shoes  till  they  shone,  and 
flecked  the  dust  from  his  clothes, — to  complete  which 
operation  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  get  up. 

A  slight  noise  on  the  landing  caused  him  to  start 
nervously. 

He  was  still  thinking  of  one  thing, — of  a  man  lying 
cold  and  stiff  at  the  Hotel  Dieu. 

Both  carefully  avoided  the  subject  uppermost  in 
either  mind, — Henri  Lerouge  and  his  sister. 

First,  she  was  astonished  that  he  had  not  questioned 
her ;  next,  she  sought  to  escape  questioning  altogether. 
She  was  secretive  by  nature.  And  now,  like  a  con- 
trite and  wretched  woman  conscious  of  her  share  of 
responsibility  for  a  great  wrong,  she  could  only  humble 
herself  before  him  and  await  his  will. 

"  Now,  Monsieur  Jean,"  she  concluded,  "  we  will 
eat.  Come!  You  must  be  hungry, — come!  A  table, 
monsieur !" 

"  Au  contraire,  I  feel  as  if  I  could  never  eat  again," 
he  said,  desperately. 

"  What  nonsense !  Come,  monsieur, — sit  down  here 
and  eat  something !  You  will  feel  better  at  once." 

"  Oh,  you  do  not  know !  you  cannot  know !"  he 
groaned,  reseating  himself  and  taking  his  head  be- 
tween his  hands.  "  It  is  too  horrible !  horrible !" 

"  Why,  monsieur !  What  is  it  ?  Are  you,  then,  hurt 
within?  Say!  Do  you  suffer?  How  foolish  I  have 
been !  I  should  have  brought  a  doctor !" 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  261 

She  was  kneeling  in  front  of  him  in  her  genuine 
alarm.  "  Where  is  it,  Monsieur  Jean  ?  Where  is  the 
pain  ?  Tell  me !  Tell  me,  then,  monsieur !" 

"  No !  no !  it  is  not  that,  my  child !  It  is  here !  here ! 
here !"  He  struck  his  breast  at  every  word,  and  bowed 
his  head  with  abject  grief. 

She  was  silent,  thinking  only  of  his  hapless  love. 
There  was  no  word  for  that ! 

"  Ah !  if  it  were  only  that !  If  it  had  been  me  in- 
stead of  him !" 

"  Monsieur !  My  poor  Monsieur  Jean !  You  must 
not  give  way  thus  !" 

"  I  am  not  fit  to  sit  at  the  table  with  you,  mademoi-^ 
selle!  My  hands  are  red  with  blood!  Do  not  touch 
them !  Understand  ?  Red !" 

"  But  you  are  crazy,  monsieur !" 

"No!  I  am — I  am  simply  a  murderer!  Do  you 
hear?  A  MURDERER!" 

He  whispered  it  with  awful  solemnity. 

Mile.  Fouchette,  now  thoroughly  frightened,  re- 
coiled from  him.  He  was  mad ! 

"  That's  right !"  he  cried.  "  That's  right,  mademoi- 
selle! I'm  not  fit  to  touch  you!  No  wonder  you 
shrink  from  me !  For  I  have  blood  on  my  hands, — his 
blood, — understand? — my  friend's!  Lerouge  dead! 
dead !  And  by  me !" 

"  What's  that  ?"  she  demanded.  "  Lerouge  dead  ? 
Nonsense!  It  is  not  so!  Who  told  you  that?  I  say 
it  is  not  true !" 

He  seized  her  almost  fiercely, — 

"  Not  dead  ?  Her  brother  not  dead  ?  Say  it  again ! 
Give  me  some  hope !"  he  pleaded,  pitifully. 


262  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  I  tell  you  again  it  is  not  so !  I  saw  one  who  knows 
but  a  few  minutes  before  I  met  you !" 

He  sank  on  his  knees  at  her  feet  and  kissed  her 
hands,  now  trembling  with  excitement. 

"  Again !"  he  exclaimed. 

"  It  is  as  true  as  God !"  said  she.  "  And  he  is  doing 
well!" 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  passionately,  pouring  out 
the  thankfulness  of  his  soul  in  kisses  and  loving  ca- 
resses, sobbing  like  a  child.  They  mingled  their  tears, 
— the  blessed  tears  of  joy  and  sympathy ! 

For  a  long  time  they  rested  thus,  immobile,  with 
thoughts  too  deep  for  expression, — in  a  sacred  silence 
broken  only  by  sighs.  Then  when  the  calm  was  com- 
plete she  softly  disengaged  herself  in  saying,  "  And  she 
is  there,  Jean,"  as  if  completing  the  sentence  long  be- 
fore begun.  But  it  required  an  effort. 

He  answered  by  a  pressure  of  the  hand.  That  was 
all. 

"  And  now,  then,  monsieur,"  she  observed,  abruptly 
and  with  playful  satire,  "  I'm  going  to  eat.  I'm  sorry 
you  are  not  hungry,  but " 

"  Eat?  Little  one,"  he  joyously  cried,  "  I  can  eat  a 
house  and  lot !"  He  took  her  bodily  between  his  hands, 
he  who  a  moment  before  had  been  so  weak,  and  tossed 
her  as  one  plays  with  a  child. 

"  For  shame !  There  is  no  house  here  for  you,  but 
I've  got  a  lot  to  eat !  There !  No  more  of  that,  Mon- 
sieur Jean,  or  you  shall  have  no  supper !" 

As  he  threatened  her  again  with  his  exuberant  spir- 
its, she  wisely  but  laughingly  put  the  table  between 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  263 

them.  But  she  looked  a  world  of  happiness  from  her 
eyes. 

From  the  extreme  of  mental  depression  Jean  Marot 
was  thus  suddenly  transported  to  the  extreme  of  hap- 
piness and  hopefulness.  Simply  because  the  life  of  the 
man  whom  he  would  have  done  to  death,  in  his  insane 
jealousy  of  a  successful  rival,  had  become  precious, 
priceless,  as  that  of  the  brother  of  his  beloved.  The 
conditions  were  desperate  enough  as  they  were.  To 
have  slain  her  brother  would  not  only  have  ren- 
dered them  hopeless,  it  would  have  condemned  the 
survivor  to  a  lifetime  of  remorse,  unless,  indeed, 
that  life  had  not  been  happily  shortened  by  the  guil- 
lotine. 

So  they  laughed,  talked,  ate,  drank,  and  made  merry, 
these  two,  taking  no  thought  of  the  morrow  until  both 
the  supper  and  the  time  necessary  to  dispose  of  it  were 
consumed. 

Jean  lighted  a  cigarette  that  she  gave  him,  and 
threw  himself  on  the  couch.  Meanwhile,  the  girl,  with 
the  assistance  of  Poupon,  got  some  hot  water  and 
washed  the  dishes,  putting  them  one  by  one  carefully 
back  on  the  shelves  in  the  wall.  Finally  the  empty 
bottle  found  its  place  under  the  couch. 

Then  she  discovered  that  Jean  was  sleeping  soundly. 
He  had  succumbed  in  spite  of  rattling  dishes  and  her 
talk,  and  slept  the  heavy  sleep  of  physical  exhaustion. 
The  cigarette  had  fallen  from  his  fingers  half  finished. 
His  throat  was  still  muffled  in  her  silken  scarf,  but  she 
tried  to  see  if  the  marks  were  still  there.  For  fully  a 
minute  she  remained  standing  over  him,  buried  in 


264  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

thought.  The  old  clock  in  the  Henri  IV.  tower  behind 
the  Pantheon  chimed  eleven.  She  sighed. 

"  Very  well !"  she  murmured.  "  Monsieur  is  right. 
He  has  no  money,  no  keys,  and  he  is  weary.  He  shall 
rest  where  he  is.  C'est  egal !" 

With  this  philosophical  reflection  she  immediately 
began  preparation  for  retiring  on  her  own  account, 
completing  this  as  if  the  monsieur  snoring  on  the  couch 
had  no  material  existence. 

"  Voila !"  said  she,  when  she  had  drawn  her  cur- 
tains. 

^nd  in  two  minutes  more  she  was  as  oblivious  to  the 
world  as  was  Jean  Marot. 


CHAPTER   XV 

IT  would  not  be  easy  to  define  the  sentiments  or 
state  the  expectations  of  Mile.  Fouchette.  Whatever 
they  were,  she  would  have  been  unable  to  formulate 
them  herself. 

Mile.  Fouchette  was  simply  and  insensibly  conform- 
ing to  her  manner  of  life.  She  was  drifting.  She  did 
not  know  where.  She  never  thought  of  towards  what 
end  or  to  what  purpose. 

Those  who  know  woman  best  never  assume  to  re- 
duce her  to  the  logical  rules  which  govern  the  mathe- 
matical mind,  but  are  always  prepared  for  the  little 
eccentricities  which  render  her  at  once  so  charming 
and  uncertain.  The  Frenchwoman  perhaps  carries  this 
uncertainty  to  a  higher  state  of  perfection  than  her  sex 
of  any  other  nationality. 

That  Mile.  Fouchette  was  the  possessor  of  that  in- 
definable something  people  call  heart  had  never  been 
so  much  as  suspected  by  those  with  whom  she  had 
come  in  intimate  contact.  It  had  certainly  never  in- 
convenienced her  up  to  this  time.  To  have  gone  to 
her  for  sympathy  would  have  been  deemed  absurd. 
Even  in  her  intense  enjoyment  of  "  la  vie  joyeuse"  her 
natural  coldness  did  not  endear  her  to  those  who  shared 
her  society  for  the  moment.  As  a  reigning  favorite  of 
the  Bohemian  set  she  would  have  earned  the  dislike 
of  her  sex;  but  this  was  greatly  accentuated  by  her 
repute  as  an  honest  girl.  The  worst  of  these  "  filles 
du  quartier"  observed  the  proprieties,  were  sticklers 
for  the  forms  of  respectability.  And  Mile.  Fouchette, 

265 


266  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

who  was  really  good,  trampled  upon  everything  and 
everybody  that  stood  in  her  way. 

As  to  her  income  from  the  studios,  bah!  and  again 
bah! 

Then  what  was  Mile.  Fouchette? 

That  was  the  universal  feminine  inquiry. 

Mile.  Fouchette  appeared  to  Jean  Marot  in  a  vaguely 
kaleidoscopic  way  as  a  woman  of  no  account  possess- 
ing good  points.  Sometimes  she  appeared  to  be  cold, 
sly,  vicious,  and  wholly  unconscionable;  again,  good- 
hearted,  self-sacrificing,  sympathetic.  But  he  did  not 
bother  about  her  particularly,  though  he  covertly 
watched  her  this  morning  preparing  breakfast.  It  was 
true,  her  blonde  hair  did  not  look  as  if  it  had  been 
touched  by  comb  or  brush,  that  she  wore  pantoufles 
that  exposed  holes  in  the  heels  of  her  stockings,  that 
her  wrapper  was  soiled  and  gaped  horribly  between 
buttons  on  and  off  its  frontage ;  but,  then,  what  woman 
is  perfect  before  breakfast? 

All  this  did  not  seriously  detract  from  the  fact  that 
she  had  gone  out  of  her  way  to  look  after  him  the  day 
before.  Nor  did  it  explain  that  she  had  this  morning 
invested  herself  with  these  slovenly  belongings,  taken 
in  the  demi-litre  of  milk  that  ornamented  her  door- 
knob, gone  down  into  the  street  for  additional  "  petits 
pains,"  added  a  couple  of  eggs  "  a  la  coque"  to  the 
usual  morning  menu,  set  Poupon  to  work  on  the  cafe- 
au-lait,  and  was  now  putting  the  finishing  touches  to 
her  little  table  in  anticipation  of  the  appetite  of  her 
awaking  guest. 

"  Bonjour,  my  little  housekeeper." 

"  Ah !    bonjour,  Monsieur  Jean.     Have  you  rested 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  267 

well  ?  What  a  lazy  man !  You  look  well  this  morning, 
monsieur." 

"  Oh,  yes ;  and  why  not,  mon  enfant  ?"  said  he, 
straightening  up  somewhat  stiffly. 

"  And  your  poor  bones  ?"  she  laughingly  inquired, 
referring  to  the  improvised  couch.  "  It  is  not  a  com- 
fortable bed  for  one  like  monsieur." 

"  It  is  luxury  unspeakable  compared  to  the  bed  I 
had  anticipated  early  last  evening.  I  never  slept  bet- 
ter in  all  my  life." 

"  Good !"  said  she. 

"  And  I'm  hungry." 

"  Better !"  said  she.  "  Here  is  a  clean  towel  and 
here  is  water,"  showing  him  her  modest  toilet  arrange- 
ment, "  and  here  is  petite  Poupon  scolding " 

"'Poupon'?"  'scolding'?" 

"  Yes,  monsieur.  Have  you,  then,  forgotten  poor 
little  Poupon?  For  shame!"  With  mock  indigna- 
tion. 

She  took  the  small  blue  teakettle,  which  had  already 
begun  to  "  scold,"  and,  stooping  over  the  hearth,  made 
the  coffee.  She  then  dropped  the  two  eggs  in  the  same 
teakettle  and  consulted  the  clock. 

"  Hard  or  soft?"  she  asked. 

"  Minute  and  a  half,"  he  replied  in  the  folds  of  the 
towel. 

She  was  pouring  the  coffee  back  through  the 
strainer  in  order  to  get  the  full  strength  of  it,  though 
it  already  looked  as  black  as  tar  and  strong  enough 
to  float  an  iron  wedge.  At  the  same  time  she  saw 
him  before  her  glass  attentively  examining  the  marks 
on  his  throat,  now  even  more  distinctly  red  than  on 


268  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

the  night  before.  But  she  knew  instinctively  that 
his  thoughts  were  not.  of  his  own,  but  of  another 
neck. 

Breakfast  was  not  the  lively  repast  of  the  previous 
evening.  In  the  best  of  circumstances  breakfast  is  a 
pessimistic  meal.  The  world  never  looks  the  same  as 
it  appeared  at  yesterday's  dinner. 

Jean  had  risen  to  a  falling  barometer.  The  first 
ebullition  .of  joy  at  having  been  spared  the  slaughter 
of  his  friend  and  the  brother  of  the  girl  he  loved  had 
passed  and  the  real  future  stared  him  in  the  face.  He 
began  to  entertain  doubts  as  to  whether  a  single  glance 
from  a  pair  of  blue  eyes  was  a  solid  foundation  for  the 
magnificent  edifice  he  had  erected  thereon.  But  Jean 
Marot  was  intensely  egoist  and  was  prone  to  regard 
that  which  he  wanted  as  already  his. 

Mile.  Fouchette  was  facing  the  same  question  on  her 
own  account, — a  fact  jwhich  she  concealed  from  both 
as  far  as  possible  by  making  herself  believe  it  was  his 
affair  exclusively.  As  it  is  always  easier  to  grapple 
with  the  difficulties  of  others  than  with  our  own,  she 
soon  found  means  to  encourage  her  illusion. 

"Mademoiselle?" 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

"  You  are  not  at  all  a  woman " 

"  What,  then,  monsieur,  if  I  am  not " 

"  Wait !  I  mean  not  at  all  like  other  women,"  he 
hastily  interposed. 

"Parexemple?" 

"  Because,  first,  you  have  not  once  said  '  I  told  you 
so/ — not  reproached  me  for  disregarding  your  ad- 
vice." 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  269 

"  No  ?  But  that  would  be  unnecessary.  You  are 
punished.  Next  ?" 

"  Well,  you  let  me  remain  here." 

"Why  not?" 

She  opened  the  steel-blue  eyes  on  him  sharply, — so 
sharply,  in  fact,  that  Jean  Marot  either  could  not  just 
then  remember  why  not  or  that  he  did  not  care  to  say. 
But  she  relieved  him  of  that  embarrassment  very 
quickly. 

"  If  you  mean  that  I  should  be  afraid  of  you,  mon- 
sieur, or  that  I  would  have  thought  for  a  moment " 

"  Oh !  no,  no,  no !  I  do  not  mean  that,  of  course. 
It  was  the  fear  women  have  of  others " 

"  What  do  I  care  for  '  others' !"  she  snapped,  scorn- 
fully. "  Pray,  Monsieur  Jean,  are  there,  then,  '  others' 
who  care  anything  about  me  ?  No !  Ask  them.  No ! 
I  do  what  I  please.  And  I  account  to  nobody.  Under- 
stand ?  Nobody !" 

Mile.  Fouchette  brought  the  small,  thin  white  hand 
down  upon  the  table  with  a  slap  that  gave  sufficient 
assurance  of  her  sincerity,  at  the  same  time  giving  a 
happy  idea  of  her  immeasurable  contempt  for  society. 

"  But,  my  dear  Mademoiselle  Fouchette,  I,  at  least, 
care  for  you, — only " 

"  La,  la,  la !  Only  you  don't  care  quite  enough, 
Monsieur  Jean,  to  take  my  advice,"  she  interrupted. 
"Is  not  that  it?" 

"  If  I  don't  I  shall  be  the  loser,  I'm  afraid,"  he  re- 
plied, lugubriously. 

"  And  then  I  should  be  sorry." 

"Why?" 

"Why  not?" 


270  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  Because  I  am  not  worthy  of  it.  Now  answer 
me." 

"  Well,  because  it  pleases  me,"  she  responded,  with 
a  smile.  "  You  know  what  I  said  but  a  moment  ago  ? 
I  do  what  I  please  and  account  to  nobody." 

"  Very  well.  Now,  does  it  please  your  Supreme 
Highness  to  continue  to  shower  the  blessing  of  your 
royal  favor  upon  me  ?" 

"  For  to-day,  perhaps ;  if  you  obey  my  imperious 
will,  monsieur." 

He  prolonged  the  comedy  by  kneeling  on  one  knee 
and  saying  humbly,  "  I  am  your  most  obedient  sub- 
ject. Command !" 

"  Bring  me  my  clothes,  monsieur." 

"  Er — wha-at?  clothes?"  he  stammered. 

"  I  said  clothes, — on  the  bed  there.  Lay  them  out 
on  the  couch,  please." 

He  found  her  simple  wardrobe  of  the  previous  day 
on  the  bed — the  skirt,  the  little  bolero,  the  hat  with  the 
feather — and  laid  them  out  on  the  couch  one  by  one 
with  mock  care  and  ceremony. 

"There!" 

"  Shake  them  out,  monsieur." 

"  Yes,  your  Highness." 

She  was  putting  away  the  last  breakfast  things  when 
she  heard  an  exclamation. 

"  Red !"  said  he.    "  And  beard,  too,  as  I'm  a  sinner !" 

He  had  found  a  tuft  of  red  beard  twisted  in  the 
fastening  of  the  bolero.  The  expression  on  his  face 
would  have  defied  words.  As  for  Mile.  Fouchette, 
she  was  for  a  moment  of  the  same  color  of  the  telltale 
hair.  For  some  reason  she  did  not  wish  Jean  to  know 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  271 

of  her  part  in  the  riot.  At  the  same  time  she  was 
angry  with  herself  for  the  womanly  feeling  of  delicacy 
that  surged  into  her  cheeks. 

"  Where  did  you  get  it  ?"  he  asked,  quizzically. 

"  Monsieur !    Go  away !" 

"  I  didn't  know  you'd  been  decorated,  mademoiselle, 
— really, — Legion  of  Honor,  too !" 

"  Bah !  I  must  have  given  some  man  a  good  pull 
in  the  crowd,"  said  she.  "  How  provoking !" 

"  For  him,  doubtless,  yes." 

"  To  return  to  your  affairs,  Monsieur  Jean,"  she  said, 
grabbing  the  garments  and  proceeding  to  put  them  on 
with  that  insouciance  begotten  of  studio  life.  "  Have 
you  any  money?" 

"With  me?    Not  a  sou!" 

She  slipped  her  hand  down  her  neck  and  drew  forth 
a  small  bag  held  there  by  a  string  and  took  from  it  a 
coin,  which  she  tendered  him. 

"  Here  is  a  louis, — you  may  repay  it  when  you  can." 

"  Thank  you,  my  child.  But  it  is  not  necessary.  I 
can  get  some  money  at  the  Credit  Lyonnais." 

"  But,  monsieur,  you  can't  walk  there !  And  we  will 
be  busy  to-day." 

"  Oh,  we  will  be  busy,  will  we  ?" 

"  Yes, — unless  you  rebel,"  she  replied,  significantly. 

"  At  least,  your  Highness  will  let  me  know " 

"  First,  we  must  go  and  find  out  how   Lerouge 

IS 

"Good!" 

"  Next,  see  an  agent  about  your  place.    You  are  to 

sell  your  lease,  you  know,  and  furniture " 

"  And  furniture, — very  well.    After?" 


272  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  And  then  we  must  find  you  a  new  place, — cheaper, 
don't  you  know  ?" 

"  A  good  deal  cheaper,"  he  said. 

"  In  this  quarter  they  are  cheapest." 

"  Then  let  it  be  in  the  quarter." 

"  Voila !  Now  that's  all  right."  A  remark  which 
may  have  equally  applied  to  his  affairs  or  to  the  putting 
on  of  her  shoes. 

"  A  very  simple  appartement  will  serve,"  he  ob- 
served, when  she  sounded  him  on  his  idea  of  cheapness. 

"  There  is  a  lovely  one  de  gargon  next  door  to  me, 
but  it  is  dear.  It  is  a  little  parlor,  bedroom,  and 
kitchen.  And  this  is  a  quiet  house,  monsieur." 

"  Good !    I  like  quietude,  and " 

"  Oh,  it  is  a  very  quiet  place,"  she  assured  him. 

"  This  appartement, — dining-room  ?" 

"  No !  What  does  a  man  alone  want  with  a  dining- 
room  ?  Let  him  eat  in  the  parlor." 

"  Yes,  that  would  be  luxury,"  he  admitted. 

"  One  doesn't  need  the  earth  in  order  to  eat  and 
sleep." 

"  N-no ;  but  how  much  is  this  luxury  of  the  Rue 
St.  Jacques?"  he  inquired. 

"  It  is  four  hundred  francs,  I  believe."  She  heaved 
a  sigh  of  regret.  It  seemed  a  large  sum  of  money  to 
Mile.  Fouchette. 

"  Four  hundred  a  year  ?  Only  four  hundred  a  year ! 
Parbleu !  And  now  what  can  one  get  for  four  hundred 
a  year,  ma  petite  Fouchette?" 

"  S-sh  !  monsieur,— a  good  deal !"  she  exclaimed, 
smiling  at  his  naivete.  With  all  his  patronizing  airs 
she  instinctively  felt  that  this  man  who  treated  her  as 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  273 



if  she  were  a  child  was  really  a  provincial  who  needed 
both  mother  and  business  agent. 

"  I'd  like  to  see  it,  anyhow,"  said  he. 

"  At  once,  monsieur, — so  you  shall ;  but  it  is  dear, 
four  hundred  francs,  when  you  might  get  the  same  at 
Montrouge  for  two  hundred  and  fifty  francs.  Here, — 
I  have  the  key, — le  voila !" 

It  was  the  appartement  of  three  rooms  next  door  to 
her  chamber,  which  seemed  to  have  been  cut  off  from 
it  as  something  superfluous  in  the  Rue  St.  Jacques. 

"  Why — and  Monsieur  de  Beauchamp  is " 

"  Gone." 

"Yesterday?" 

"  Yesterday  afternoon, — yes.  Quite  sudden,  was  it 
not?" 

She  said  this  as  though  it  was  of  no  importance. 

"The  huissier?"  he  suggested,  official  ejectment  be- 
ing the  most  common  cause  of  student  troubles. 

She  laughed  secretively.     • 

"The  police?" 

Then  she  laughed  openly — her  pretty  little  silvery 
tinkle — and  drew  his  attention  to  the  kitchen. 

It  was  a  small  dark  place  with  a  much-worn  tile  floor 
and  a  charcoal  range  of  two  pockets  faced  and  covered 
with  blue  and  white  tiles;  an  immense  hood  above 
yawning  like  the  flat  open  jaws  of  a  gigantic  cobra, 
which  might  not  only  consume  all  the  smoke  and 
smells  but  gobble  up  the  little  tile-covered  range  itself 
upon  gastronomical  provocation. 

"  Isn't  it  just  lovely !"  exclaimed  Mile.  Fouchette,  de- 
lightedly. "  And  see !  here  is  a  stone  sink,  and  there's 

water  and  gas." 

18 


274  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

Water  and  gas  ar^  still  deemed  luxuries  in  the  more 
ancient  quarters  of  Paris.  As  for  baths,  they  are  for 
the  rich, — even  the  more  modern  structures  are  par- 
simonious of  baths.  You  realize  all  this  when  in  a 
close  omnibus,  or  smell  some  well-dressed  Parisienne 
ten  feet  away.  When  one  of  the  dwellers  of  Rue  St. 
Jacques  takes  a  bath  a  battered  old  tub  is  brought 
around  on  a  wagon  and  unloaded  in  the  court  with  a 
noise  and  ceremony  that  arouses  the  entire  neighbor- 
hood, which  puts  its  head  out  of  the  window  and  won- 
ders who  is  going  to  be  married. 

"And  here's  a  private  closet,  too,"  continued  Mile. 
Fouchette, — "  everything !  But  that  sweet  little  stove  1 
I  could  cook  a  course  dinner  on  that !" 

"  Oh,  you  could,  eh  ?"  inquired  Jean.  "  Then  you 
shall." 

"  Surely !"  said  the  girl,  as  if  it  were  settled  from 
the  first.  "  Besides,  it  is  so  much  more  economical  for 
two  than  one."  * 

"  Oh,  is  it?"  he  replied,  doubtfully. 

"  Of  course,  if  one  lives  at  expensive  restaurants. 
And  in  bad  weather  or  when  one  feels  grumpy — 

They  looked  at  the  large  bedroom  and  small  ante- 
room, or  toilet-room  adjoining,  which  Mile.  Fouchette 
declared  was  good  enough  for  a  lord,  inspected  the 
closets,  commented  on  the  excellent  condition  of  the 
polished  floors  and  newly  papered  walls,  and  finally 
decided  that  it  really  was  a  good  deal  for  the  money. 

"  It  could  be  made  a  little  paradise,"  said  she,  en- 
thusiastically. 

"  Needing  the  angels,"  he  suggested. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  275 

"  Possibly ;  but  one  can  get  along  very  comfortably 
without  them." 

"  But  I  wonder  why  M.  de  Beauchamp,  installed 
here  so  comfortably  day  before  yesterday,  should  be 
missing  to-day.  There  must  be  some  drawback 
here " 

"  Oh,  no.  The  truth  is,  M.  de  Beauchamp  thought 
he  saw — in  fact,  M.  de  Beauchamp  did  see  visions.  In 
one  of  these  he  was  foretold  of  a  possible  difference 
of  opinion  between  himself  and  the  government ;  about 
something  that  was  to  have  happened  yesterday  and 
didn't  happen " 

"  Did  not  happen.    Go  on." 

"  There,  Monsieur  Jean,"  she  concluded,  "  that  is  all. 
Only,  you  see,  M.  de  Beauchamp's  arrangements 
havjng  been  made,  he  probably  thought  he  might  as 
well  disappear " 

"  And  his  studio  with  him." 

"  Precisely.  Look  what  a  nice  big  closet  in  the 
wall!" 

"  Yes, — funny.  But,  I  say,  mon  enfant,  was  this 
handsome  M.  de  Beauchamp  really  an  artist?" 

"  Bah !  how  do  I  know  ?  He  made  pictures.  Cer- 
tainly, he  made  pictures." 

Jean  Marot  laughed  so  heartily  at  this  subtle  dis- 
tinction that  he  lost  the  mental  note  of  her  disinclina- 
tion to  gossip  about  her  late  neighbor, — a  reluctance 
that  is  decidedly  foreign  to  the  French  female  char- 
acter. 

"  Now,  Monsieur  Jean," — when  he  had  made  up  his 
mind, — "  if  you  will  let  me  manage  the  concierge," 


276  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

she  went  on,  "  it  may  save  you  fifty  francs,  don't  you 
know?  Very  likely  the  term  has  been  paid, — he  will 
make  you  pay  it  again.  I  know  Monsieur  Benoit, — 
he'd  rob  you  like  saying  a  prayer." 

"  It  is  a  novelty  to  be  looked  after  by  a  female  agent, 
anyhow,"  mused  the  young  man,  when  she  had  disap- 
peared on  this  mission.  "  If  she  picks  up  the  fifty 
francs  instead  of  that  surly  rascal  Benoit  I'm  satisfied. 
It  is  a  quiet  place,  sure,  and  dog  cheap.  Now,  I  won- 
der what  her  game  is,  for  women  don't  do  all  of  these 
things  for  nothing." 

Jean  was  of  the  great  pessimistic  school  of  French- 
men who  never  give  a  woman  credit  for  disinterested- 
ness or  honesty,  but  who  regard  them  good-naturedly 
as  inferior  beings,  amusing,  weak,  selfish  creatures, 
placed  on  earth  to  gratify  masculine  vanity  and  pas- 
sion,— to  be  admired  or  pitied,  as  the  case  might  be, 
but  never  trusted,  and  always  fair  game.  The  married 
Frenchman  never  trusts  his  wife  or  daughter  alone 
with  his  best  male  friend.  No  young  girl  alone  in  the 
streets  of  Paris  is  free  from  insult,  day  or  night ;  and 
such  a  girl  in  such  a  case  would  appeal  to  the  honor 
of  Frenchmen  in  vain. 

Jean  Marot  would  have  never  dreamed  that  Mile. 
Fouchette  had  saved  him  from  imprisonment.  Even  in 
his  magnanimous  moments  he  would  have  listened  to 
the  accusation  that  this  girl  had  robbed  him  of  his 
money  and  watch  quite  as  readily  as  to  the  statement 
that  she  had  already  taken  measures  to  insure  the  re- 
covery of  that  personal  property.  Yet,  while  his  esti- 
mate of  woman  was  low,  it  did  not  prevent  him  from 
loving  one  whom  he  had  believed  another  man's  mis- 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  277 

tress ;  it  did  not  now  steel  his  heart  against  the  sym- 
pathy of  mutual  isolation. 

"  All  goes  well !"  cried  Mile.  Fouchette,  skipping  into 
the  room. 

"  All  goes  well,  eh  ?"  he  repeated. 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  Jean.  Think  then !  it  is  a  bargain. 
Oh,  yes,  one  hundred  francs " 

"What?" 

"  I  say  one  hundred  francs  saved !  The  semestre 
was  paid  and  you  get  it  less  a  term's  rent,  thus  you  save 
one  hundred  francs.  Isn't  that  nice?  One  can  live 
two  months  on  one  hundred  francs." 

"  Oh !  oh !  oh !  not  I,"  he  laughingly  exclaimed. 
"  But  I  guess  I'd  better  let  you  manage,  little  one ;  you 
have  begun  so  well." 

Her  face  almost  flushed  with  pleasure  and  her  eyes 
sparkled. 

"  And  you  shall  have  fifty  of  that  hundred  francs 
saved.  It  is  only  fair,  petite,"  he  hastily  added,  seeing 
the  brightness  extinguished  by  clouds. 

But  she  turned  abruptly  towards  the  window.  He 
mistook  this  gesture  and  said  to  himself,  "  She  would 
like  to  have  it  all,  I  suppose.  I'd  better  make  a  square 
bargain  with  her  right  here."  Then  aloud, — 

"  Mademoiselle  Fouchette !" 

"  Yes,  monsieur," — coldly. 

"What  is  your  idea?" 

"  As  to  what,  Monsieur  Jean  ?" 

"  Well,  say  about  our  domestic  affairs,  if  you  will." 

"  Well,  monsieur,  very  simply  this :  I  will  care  for 
the  place  if  you  wish, — somebody  must  care  for 
it " 


278  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  Yes,  that  is  evident,  and  I  wish  you  to  help  me, 
if  you  will." 

"  Then  I'll  serve  the  breakfasts  and  any  other  meal 
you  wish  to  pay  for.  In  other  words,  if  you  prefer  it 
in  terms,  I  will  be  your  housekeeper.  I  can  cook,  and 
I'm  a  good  buyer  and " 

"  No  doubt  of  that,  mon  enfant ;  but  I  am  a  poor 
man  now,  you  know,  and  the  pay " 

"  Pay !  And  who  has  asked  you  to  pay  anything  ? 
Do  you  suppose — ah !  Monsieur  Jean,  you  don't  think 
me  that !" 

"  But  one  can't  be  expected  to  work  for  nothing," 
protested  the  young  man,  humbly. 

"Work?  It  would  be  pleasure.  And  then  you 
would  be  paying  for  what  we  ate,  wouldn't  you?  I 
have  to  make  my  coffee, — it  would  be  just  as  easy  for 
two.  And  you  would  be  perfectly  free  to  dine  at  the 
restaurant  when  you  chose, — we'd  be  as  free  as  we 
are  now, — and  I  would  not  intrude " 

"  Oh,  I  never  thought  of  that !"  he  declared. 

"  Do  not  spoil  my  pleasure  by  suggesting  money !" 
Her  voice  was  growing  low  and  the  lips  trembled  a 
little,  but  only  for  a  second  or  two,  when  she  recovered 
her  ordinary  tone. 

"As  a  rich  man's  son  living  in  the  Faubourg  St. 
Honore  you  might  have  suspected  that  motive,  but  as 
a  medical  student  chasse,  and  deserted  by  his  parents 
and  with  no  prospects  to  speak  of " 

His  lugubrious  smile  checked  her. 

"  Pardon !  Monsieur  Jean,  I  did  not  wish  to  remind 
you  of  your  misfortunes.  Let  us  put  it  on  purely 
selfish  grounds.  I  am  poor.  I  am  alone.  I  am  lonely. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  279 

I  should  at  least  earn  my  coffee  and  rolls.  I  would 
see  you  every  day.  My  time  would  be  pleasantly  occu- 
pied. I  will  be  a  sister, — bonne  camarade, — nothing 
more,  nothing  less " 

He  had  taken  her  hands  impulsively,  but  her  eyes 
were  veiled  by  the  heavy  lashes. 

"  Voila !  It  is  then  understood  ?"  she  asked,  ven- 
turing to  look  up  into  his  face. 

"  Certes !  But  your  terms  are  too  generous, — and — 
and,  you  know  the  object  of  my  heart,  mademoiselle." 

"  Tou jours!  And  I  will  help  you  attain  that  object 
if  possible,"  she  said,  warmly,  pressing  his  hand. 

"  You  are  too  good,  mademoiselle,"  he  responded. 
"  Next  to  one  woman  I  think  you  are  the  best  woman  I 
ever  knew !" 

He  took  her  in  his  strong  arms  and  kissed  her  ten- 
derly, though  she  struggled  faintly. 

"  Enough !  enough !  You  must  not  do  that,  mon- 
sieur! I  do  not  like  it.  Remember  how  I  hate  men, 
spoony  men, — they  disgust  me !  As  a  woman  I  can  be 
nothing  to  you;  as  a  friend  I  may  be  much.  Save 
your  caresses,  monsieur,  for  the  woman  you  love! 
You  understand?" 

"  There !  no  offence,  little  one.  Am  I  not  your 
brother?"  he  asked,  laughing. 

She  nervously  readjusted  her  blonde  hair  before  the 
little  glass  and  did  not  reply.  But  it  was  evident  that 
she  was  not  very  zingry,  for  Mile.  Fouchette  was  ex- 
plosive and  went  off  at  a  rude  touch. 

At  the  same  moment  a  terrible  racket  rose  from  the 
stairway, — the  sound  of  a  woman's  voice  and  blows 
and  the  howling  of  a  dog.  Leaning  over  the  banister 


280  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

the  young  couple  saw  a  woman,  short,  broad,  bare- 
headed, and  angry,  wielding  a  broom-handle.  The 
passage  was  rather  narrow,  so  that  more  than  half  of 
the  whacks  at  the  dog  were  spent  upon  the  wall  and 
balustrade,  though  the  animal,  lashed  to  the  latter, 
yelped  at  every  blow  the  same. 

Now,  in  Paris  a  dog  is  a  sort  of  a  privileged  animal, 
not  quite  sacred.  Rome  was  saved  by  geese,  pigeons 
are  venerated  in  Venice.  Dogs  preserved  Paris  in  the 
fearful  day  of  the  great  siege  by  suffering  themselves 
to  be  turned  into  soups,  steaks,  sausage,  etc.  Since 
which  Paris  has  become  the  dog  paradise,  where  all 
good  dogs  go  when  they  die.  They  not  only  have  the 
right  of  way  everywhere,  but  the  exclusive  right  of 
the  sunny  sidewalks  in  winter  and  shady  side  in  sum- 
mer. A  Frenchman  will  beat  his  wife,  or  stab  his  mis- 
tress in  the  back,  club  his  horses  fiendishly,  but  he  will 
never  raise  hand  or  foot  against  a  dog. 

From  every  landing  came  a  burst  of  remonstrance 
and  indignation.  Vituperative  language  peculiar  to  a 
neighborhood  that  has  enjoyed  the  intimate  society  of 
two  thousand  years  of  accumulated  human  wisdom  and 
intellectual  greatness,  and  embellished  and  decorated 
by  the  old  masters,  rose  and  fell  upon  the  sinful  dog- 
beater,  with  the  effect  of  increasing  the  blows. 

Suddenly  three  persons  sprang  to  the  rescue,  two 
from  below  and  one  from  above.  The  last  was  a 
woman  and  the  owner  of  the  dog. 

"  Mon  Dieu !    My  dear  little  Tu-tu !"  she  screamed. 

And  with  a  howl  of  wrath  that  drowned  the  piercing 
voice  of  poor  little  Tu-tu  she  precipitated  herself  upon 
the  enemy. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  281 

The  latter  turned  her  weapon  upon  the  new-comer 
just  as  the  two  men  from  below  grabbed  her.  This 
diversion  enabled  the  infuriated  dog-owner  to  plant 
both  hands  in  the  enemy's  hair,  which  came  off  at  the 
first  wrench. 

"Oh!"  cried  Jean. 

"  It  is  horrible !"  said  Mile.  Fouchette,  with  a  shud- 
der. 

From  where  they  beheld  the  tragedy  they  could  not 
see  that  the  hair  was  false. 

But  the  dog-beater  was  just  as  angry  as  if  it  had 
been  ripped  from  its  original  and  virgin  pasture,  and 
she  uttered  a  shriek  that  was  heard  around  the  block 
and  grappled  her  three  assailants. 

The  whole  four,  a  struggling  composite  mass  of  legs 
and  arms,  went  rolling  down  to  the  next  landing  sur- 
rounded by  a  special  and  lurid  atmosphere  of  oaths. 

There  they  were  arrested  by  the  aroused  police 
agents. 

Poor  little  Tu-tu  had  stopped  howling.  He  was 
dead, — crushed  under  the  human  avalanche. 

"  Yes,"  said  Jean,  "  this  is  a  quiet  house." 

"  Dame !"  replied  Mile.  Fouchette,  "  it  is  like  death !" 


CHAPTER   XVI 

AN  hour  later  Jean  Marot  and  Mile.  Fouchette  were 
at  the  foot  of  the  broad  stone  steps  leading  to  the 
Hotel  Dieu,  the  famous  hospital  fronting  on  the  plaza 
of  Notre  Dame. 

"  I  will  wait,"  he  said. 

"  Yes ;  I  will  inquire,"  she  assented.  "  I  was  here 
last  night."  And  Mile.  Fouchette  ran  lightly  up  the 
steps  and  entered  the  palatial  court. 

Another  woman  was  hastily  walking  in  the  opposite 
direction.  She  bent  her  head  and  quickened  her  steps 
as  if  to  avoid  recognition. 

"  Why,  it  is  Madeleine !"  cried  Mile.  Fouchette, 
throwing  herself  in  the  way. 

A  face  stamped  with  the  marks  of  dissipation  and 
haggard  with  watching  was  raised  to  meet  this  greet- 
ing. The  one  big,  round,  dark  orb  gleamed  upon  the 
speaker  almost  fiercely. 

"  So  you're  here  again,"  muttered  the  one-eyed 
grisette,  in  her  deep  voice. 

"  It  seems  so.    I  wish  to  find  out  how  he  is." 

"  What  business  is  it  of  yours  ?" 

"  Oh,  come,  now,  Madeleine ;  you're  all  upset.  You 
look  worn  out.  You  have  been  here  all  night  ?" 

"  Ah,  93. !  it  is  nothing.  Have  I  not  been  up  all 
night  more  than  once?" 

"And  monsieur " 

"  They  say  he  is  better." 

"  You  have  seen  him,  then?" 

"  No ;   they  would  not  allow  me.    Besides,  there  is 
his  sister." 
282 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  283 

"  Is  she  with  him  now  ?" 

"  Not  now.  They  sent  her  away  in  the  night.  She 
will  be  back  this  morning." 

"  Poor  girl !" 

"  But  what  is  all  this  to  you  ?  Why  are  you  here  ? 
Does  the  Ministry " 

"  Madeleine  I" 

But  the  tigerish  look  that  swept  over  Mile.  Fou- 
chette's  face  gave  way  to  confusion  when  the  grisette 
quickly  shifted  her  ground. 

"  Monsieur  Marot,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  Madeleine." 

"  And  so  he  has  thrown  her  over  for  you,  eh  ?"  the 
other  bitterly  asked,  with  a  contemptuous  shrug  of  her 
shoulders. 

"  Oh !  no,  no,  no !"  hastily  protested  Mile.  Fouchette, 
trembling  a  little  in  spite  of  herself.  "  That  would  be 
impossible!  He  is  so  sorry,  Madeleine." 

"  Sorry !  Yes,  and  the  wicked  marks  on  his  throat, 
mon  Dieu !" 

"Are  on  Jean's  also,  Madeleine,"  said  Mile.  Fou- 
chette. "  Let  us  set  these  friends  right,  Madeleine. 
Will  you?  Let  them  be  friends  once  more." 

The  one  dark  eye  had  been  searching,  searching. 
For  the  ears  heard  a  voice  they  had  never  heard  be- 
fore. It  came  from  the  lips  of  Mile.  Fouchette,  but 
was  not  the  familiar  voice  of  Mile.  Fouchette.  But 
the  search  was  vain. 

"Ah!  very  well,  petite,"  the  searcher  finally  said, 
with  a  sigh.  "  Their  quarrel  is  not  mine.  I  have 
not  set  these  men  on  to  tear  each  other  like  wild 
beasts." 


284  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

Mile.  Fouchette  turned  her  face  away.  But  the  veins 
on  her  white  neck  were  as  plain  as  print. 

They  were  read  by  the  simple-hearted  grisette  thus : 
It  could  only  be  love  or  hate ;  since  it  is  not  hate,  it  is 
love !  Lerouge  or  Marot  ? 

"Mademoiselle!" 

The  other  turned  a  defiant  face  towards  the  speaker. 

"  You  know  that  a  reconciliation  between  these  men 
means " 

"  That  Jean  Marot  will  be  thrown  into  the  arms  of 
the  woman  he  loves,"  was  the  bold  interpolation. 

"  Exactly." 

"  That  is  what  I  wish." 

The  dark  eye  gleamed  again,  and  the  breast  heaved. 
It  must  be  Lerouge!  Jealousy  places  the  desira- 
bility of  its  subject  above  everything.  It  must  be 
Lerouge. 

"  Chut !  Here  she  comes,"  whispered  Mile.  Fou- 
chette. 

It  was  Mile.  Remy.  She  was  clad  in  a  simple  blue 
costume,  the  skirt  of  which  cleared  the  ground  by  sev- 
eral inches,  her  light  blonde  hair  puffing  out  in  rich 
coils  from  beneath  the  sailor  hat.  Her  sad  blue  eyes 
lighted  at  the  sight  of  Madeleine,  and  her  face  broke 
into  a  questioning  smile  as  she  extended  her  small 
hand. 

"  Oh,  Monsieur  Lerouge  is  much  better,  mademoi- 
selle," said  Madeleine. 

"  Thank  you ! — thank  you  for  your  good  news,  my 
dear,"  Mile.  Remy  warmly  replied. 

She  turned  towards  Mile.  Fouchette  a  little  ner- 
vously, and  Madeleine  introduced  them. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  285 

"  It  is  strange,  Mademoiselle  Fouchette,"  observed 
Mile.  Remy ;  "  could  I  have  met  you  before?" 

"  I  think  not,  mademoiselle.  One  meets  people  on 
the  boulevards " 

"  No,  I  don't  mean  that, — a  long  time  ago,  some- 
where,— not  in  Paris." 

Mile.  Remy  was  trying  to  think. 

"  Perhaps  you  confuse  me  with  somebody  else, 
mademoiselle." 

"  Scarcely,  since  I  do  not  remember  seing  anybody 
who  resembled  you.  No,  it  is  not  that,  surely." 

"  One  often  fancies " 

"  But  my  brother  Henri  thought  so  too,  which  is 
very  curious.  May  I  ask  you  if  your  name " 

"  Just  Fouchette,  mademoiselle.  I  never  heard  of 
any  other " 

"  I  am  from  Nantes,"  interrupted  Mile.  Remy. 
"Think!" 

"  And  I  am  only  a  child  of  the  streets  of  Paris, 
mademoiselle,"  said  Mile.  Fouchette,  humbly. 

"Ah!" 

Mile.  Remy  sighed. 

"  Mademoiselle  Fouchette  and  Monsieur  Marot  have 
come  to  learn  the  news  of  your  brother,"  said  Made- 
leine, seeing  the  latter  approaching. 

Jean  Marot  had,  in  fact,  followed  Mile.  Remy  inside 
of  the  building,  but  having  been  overtaken  by  timidity 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  had  hesitated  at  a  little  dis- 
tance in  the  rear.  He  could  stand  the  suspense  no 
longer. 

"  Monsieur  Marot,  Mademoiselle " 

"  Oh,  we  have  met  before,  monsieur,  have  we  not  ?" 


286  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

asked  Mile.  Remy,  lightly.  "  I  thank  you  very  much 
for " 

Jean  felt  his  heart  beating  against  the  ribbed  walls 
of  its  prison  as  if  it  would  burst  forth  to  attest  its  love 
for  her.  He  had  often  conjured  up  this  meeting  and 
rehearsed  what  he  would  say  to  her.  Now  his  lips 
were  dumb.  He  could  only  look  and  listen. 

And  this  was  she  whom  he  loved ! 

In  the  mean  time  Mile.  Remy,  who  had  flushed  a 
little  under  the  intense  scrutiny  she  felt  but  could  not 
understand,  grew  visibly  uneasy.  She  detected  a  sign 
from  Mile.  Fouchette. 

He  had  unconsciously  disclosed  the  telltale  marks 
upon  his  neck. 

At  the  sight  Mile.  Remy  grew  pale.  There  was 
much  about  this  young  man  that  recalled  her  brother 
Henri,  even  these  terrible  finger-marks.  All  at  once 
she  remembered  the  meeting  of  Mardi  Gras,  when  her 
brother  insulted  him  and  pulled  her  away. 

Why? 

It  was  because  this  young  Marot  admired  her,  and 
because  he  and  her  brother  were  enemies.  She  saw 
it  now  for  the  first  time.  Paris  was  full  of  political 
enemies.  Yet,  in  awe  of  her  brother's  judgment  and 
like  a  well-bred  French  girl,  she  dared  not  raise  her 
eyes  to  his, — with  the  half-minute  of  formalities  she 
hurried  away.  But  as  she  turned  she  gave  him  one 
quick  glance  that  combined  politeness,  shyness,  fear, 
curiosity,  and  pity, — a  glance  that  went  straight  to  his 
heart  and  increased  its  tumult. 

A  pair  of  sharp,  steel-blue  eyes  regarded  him  fur- 
tively, and,  while  half  veiled  by  the  long  lashes,  lost 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  287 

not  a  breath  or  gesture  of  this  meeting  and  parting, — 
saw  Jean  standing,  hat  in  hand,  partly  bowed,  speech- 
less, with  his  soul  in  his  handsome  face. 

The  one  black  eye  of  the  maimed  grisette  saw  only 
Mile.  Fouchette.  If  that  scrutiny  could  not  fathom 
Mile.  Fouchette's  mind,  it  was  perhaps  because  the 
mind  of  Mile.  Fouchette  was  not  sufficiently  clear. 

"  Aliens !"  said  the  latter  young  woman,  in  a  tone 
that  scarcely  broke  his  revery. 

There  is  often  more  expression  in  a  simple  touch 
than  in  a  multitude  of  words.  The  unhappy  grisette 
felt  this  from  the  sympathetic  hand  of  the  young  man 
slipped  into  hers  at  parting.  At  a  little  distance  she 
turned  to  see  Jean  and  Mile.  Fouchette  enter  a  cab  and 
drive  towards  the  right  bank. 

"  Ca !"  she  murmured,  "  but  if  that  petite  moucharde 
had  a  heart  it  would  be  his !" 

During  the  next  half-hour  Mile.  Fouchette  uncon- 
sciously gained  greatly  in  Jean's  estimation  by  saying 
nothing.  They  went  to  the  Credit  Lyonnais,  in  Boule- 
vard des  Italiens,  to  Rue  St.  Honore,  to  the  "  agent 
de  location," — getting  money,  taking  a  list  of  furni- 
ture, seeing  about  the  sale  of  his  lease.  In  all  of  this 
business  Mile.  Fouchette  showed  such  a  clear  head  and 
quick  calculation  that  from  first  being  amused,  Jean 
at  last  leaned  upon  her  implicitly. 

The  next  day  was  spent  in  arranging  his  new  quar- 
ters, Mile.  Fouchette  issuing  general  direction,  to  the 
constant  discomfiture  of  the  worthy  Benoit,  thus  de- 
prived of  unknown  perquisites. 

When  this  work  of  installation  had  been  completed, 
Jean  found  himself  with  comfortable  quarters  in  the 


288  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

Rue  St.  Jacques  at  a  saving  of  nearly  two  thousand 
four  hundred  francs. 

"  There !"  exclaimed  Mile.  Fouchette. 

"  At  last !"  said  Jean. 

"  Now,"  Mile.  Fouchette  began,  with  enthusiasm, 
"  I'm  going  to  get  dinner !" 

"  Oh,  not  to-day !  Aliens  done !  We  must  celebrate 
by  dinner  at  the  restaurant." 

"  But  it's  a  sinful  waste  of  money,  when  one  has 
such  a  sweet  range, — and  you  must  economize,  mon- 
sieur." 

"  All  right,"  he  replied,—"  to-morrow." 

It  is  a  popular  plan  of  economy,  that  which  begins 
to-morrow. 

"  Yes,  to-morrow ;  to-morrow  you  shall  have  your 
way.  To-day  I  have  mine.  Why,  what  a  parsimo- 
nious little  wretch  you  are!  And  have  you  not  been 
devoting  all  of  your  time  and  working  hard  for  me 
these  five  days?" 

"  Ah !    Monsieur  Jean " 

"  We  will  treat  ourselves  to  a  good  dinner  au  boule- 
vard. You  have  been  my  best  friend " 

"  Oh,  Monsieur  Jean !" 

"  Are  my  best  friend,"  he  added.  "  I  really  don't 
see  how  I  could  have  gotten  on  without  you." 

"  Ah !   Monsieur  Jean !" 

"  You  have  saved  me  hundreds  of  francs, — you  are 
such  a  good  little  manager !" 

Nothing  up  to  that  moment  had  ever  given  Mile. 
Fouchette  half  the  pleasure  bestowed  with  this  praise. 
Mile.  Fouchette  blushed.  Jean  saw  this  blush  and 
laughed.  It  was  so  funny  to  see  Mile.  Fouchette 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  289 

blush.  This  made  Mile.  Fouchette  blush  still  deeper. 
In  fact,  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  warm  blood  that  had 
been  concealed  in  Mile.  Fouchette's  system  so  long 
had  taken  an  upward  tendency  and  now  disported  itself 
about  her  neck  and  face. 

Jean  would  have  kissed  her,  only  she  repulsed  him 
angrily;  then,  seeing  his  surprise  and  confusion,  she 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  laughed  hyster- 
ically. 

"  Mademoiselle- — " 

"  Stop,  stop,  stop !  I  knew  what  you  were  going  to 
say !  It  was  money  again !" 

"  Really,  mademoiselle " 

"  It  was !  You  did !  You  know  you  did !  And  you 
know  how  I  hate  it !  Don't  you  dare  to  offer  me  money, 

because  I  love "  Mile.  Fouchette  choked  here  a 

little, — "  because  I  love  to  help  you,  Monsieur  Jean !" 

"  But  I  was  not  thinking  of  offering  you  money  for 
your  kindness,  mon  enfant."  Jean  took  this  play  for 
safety  as  genuine  wrath. 

"  You  were  going  to ;  you  know  you  were !"  she 
retorted,  defiantly. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  may  offer  to  repay  the  louis  I 
borrowed  the  other  day?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  I'll  make  you  pay  your  debts,  monsieur, 
— never  fear  that !" 

She  began  to  recover  her  equilibrium,  and  smiled 
confidently  in  his  face.  But  he  was  now  serious. 

"  There  are  some  debts  one  can  never  pay,"  said  he. 

"  Never !  never !  never !"  she  exclaimed.  "  Mon- 
sieur, whatever  I  might  do,  I  owe  you  still!  It  will 
always  be  so!" 

19 


290  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"Uh!    Uh!    That's  barred,  petite." 

He  stopped  walking  up  and  down  and  looked  into 
her  earnest  eyes  without  grasping  her  meaning.  "  She 
is  more  feminine  than  one  would  suppose,"  he  said  to 
himself, — "  almost  interesting,  really !" 

"  Come !"  he  cried,  suddenly,  "  this  is  straying  from 
the  subject,  which  is  dinner.  Come !" 

"  We'd  have  to  do  some  marketing,  anyhow,"  she 
admitted,  as  if  arguing  with  herself.  "  Perhaps  it  is 
better  to  go  out." 

"  Most  assuredly." 

"  Not  at  any  fashionable  place,  Monsieur  Jean — 

"  Oh,  no ;  is  there  any  such  place  in  the  quarter  ?" 
he  laughingly  asked. 

"  Can't  we  go  over  on  the  other  side  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  child,  certainly." 

"  I  know  a  place  in  Montmartre  where  one  may  dine 
en  fete  for  two  francs  and  a  half,  cafe  compris."  She 
was  getting  on  her  things,  and  for  the  first  time  was 
conscious  of  the  hole  in  the  heel  of  her  stocking. 

"  There  is  the  Cafe  de  Paris— 

"  Oh !  it  is  five  francs !"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Well,  one  may  dine  better  on  five  francs  than  two 
and  a  half." 

"  It  is  too  dear,  Monsieur  Jean." 

"Then  there  is  the  Hotel  du  Louvre  table-d'hote, 
four  francs, — very  good,  too." 

"  It  is  too  fashionable, — too  many  Americans." 

"  Parbleu !  one  can  be  an  American  for  one  meal, 
can  he  -not  ?  They  say  Americans  live  well  in  their 
own  country.  They  have  meat  three  times  a  day, — 
even  the  poorest  laborers." 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  291 

"  And  eat  meat  for  breakfast, — it  is  horrible !" 

"  Yes, — they  are  savages." 

After  discussing  the  various  places  and  finding  that 
his  ideas  of  a  good  dining-place  were  somewhat  more 
enlarged  than  her  ideas,  Mile.  Fouchette  finally 
brought  him  down  to  a  Bouillon  in  Boule'  Miche', — 
the  student  appellation  for  Boulevard  St.  Michel.  She 
would  have  preferred  any  other  quarter  of  the  city, 
though  not  earnestly  enough  to  stand  out  for  it. 

They  settled  on  the  Cafe  Weber,  opposite  the  an- 
cient College  d'Harcourt,  a  place  of  the  Bouillon  order, 
with  innumerable  dishes  graded  up  from  twenty  cen- 
times to  a  franc  and  an  additional  charge  of  ten  cen- 
times for  the  use  of  a  napkin. 

Wine  aside,  a  better  meal  for  less  money  can  be  had 
in  a  score  of  places  on  Broadway.  In  the  matter  of 
wine,  the  New  York  to  the  Paris  price  would  be  as  a 
dollar  to  the  franc. 

In  the  Quartier  Latin  these  places  are  patronized 
almost  exclusively  by  the  student  class.  Not  less  than 
fifty  of  the  latter  were  at  table  in  the  Cafe  Weber  when 
Jean  Marot  and  Mile.  Fouchette  entered.  Here  and 
there  among  them  were  a  few  grisettes  and  as  many 
cocottes  of  the  Cafe  d'Harcourt,  costumes  en  bicy- 
clette,  demure,  hungry,  and  silent.  Young  women  in 
smart  caps  and  white  aprons  briskly  served  the  tables, 
while  in  the  centre,  in  a  sort  of  enclosed  pulpit,  sat  the 
handsome,  rosy-faced  dame  du  comptoir,  with  a  sharp 
eye  for  employes  and  a  winning  smile  and  nod  for 
familiar  customers. 

There  was  a  perceptible  sensation  upon  the  entrance 
of  the  last  comers.  A  momentary  hush  was  succeeded 


292  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

by  a  general  buzz  of  conversation,  the  subject  of  which 
was  quite  easily  understood.  The  stately  dame  du 
comptoir  immediately  opened  her  little  wicket  and 
came  down  from  her  perch  to  show  the  couple  to  the 
best  seats,  a  courtesy  rarely  extended  by  that  imper- 
sonation of  restaurant  dignity.  The  hungry  women 
almost  stopped  eating  to  see  what  man  was  in  tow  of 
the  "  Savatiere." 

"  We  are  decidedly  an  event,"  laughingly  observed 
Jean  as  they  became  seated  where  they  could  command 
the  general  crowd  at  table. 

"  Yes,  monsieur,"  replied  the  dame  du  comptoir, 
though  his  remark  had  not  been  addressed  to  that 
lady, — "  the  fame  of  the  brave  Monsieur  Marot  is  well 
known  in  the  quarter.  And — and  mademoiselle,"  she 
added,  sweetly,  "  mademoiselle  —  well,  everybody 
knows  mademoiselle." 

With  this  under-cut  at  Mile.  Fouchette  the  rosy- 
cheeked  cashier  left  them  in  charge  of  the  waitress  of 
that  particular  table. 

"  You  see,  Monsieur  Jean,"  said  his  companion,  not 
at  all  pleased  by  this  reception,  "  we  are  both  pretty 
well  known  here." 

"  So  it  seems.  Yet  I  was  never  in  here  before,  if  I 
remember  correctly." 

"  Nor  I,"  said  she,  "  but  once  or  twice." 

Notoriety  is  fame  to  Frenchmen,  and  while  he  did 
not  yet  fully  comprehend  it,  Jean  Marot  had  reached 
this  sort  of  fame  in  a  single  day.  His  name  had  been 
actively  and  even  viciously  discussed  in  the  news- 
papers. He  was  accused  of  being  both  royalist  and 
anti-Dreyfusarde  by  the  ultra  republican  press.  He 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  293 

was  said  to  be  a  Bonapartist.  The  Dreyfusarde  papers 
declared  that  the  government  had  connived  at  his  dis- 
charge from  prison.  The  nationalist  papers  lauded 
him  as  a  patriot.  One  extravagant  writer  compared 
him  to  the  celebrated  Camille  Desmoulins  who  led  the 
great  Revolution.  A  noisy  deputation  had  called  upon 
him  in  the  Rue  St.  Honore  to  find  that  he  had  not  been 
seen  there  since  the  riot. 

Of  all  of  this  Jean  Marot  actually  knew  less  than 
any  other  well-informed  person  in  Paris.  Being 
wholly  absorbed  in  his  domestic  affairs,  he  had  scarcely 
more  than  glanced  at  a  newspaper,  and  did  not  at  this 
moment  know  that  his  name  had  ever  been  printed  in 
the  Paris  journals.  The  few  acquaintances  he  had  met 
had  congratulated  him  for  something,  and  some  stu- 
dents he  did  not  know  had  raised  their  hats  to  him  in 
the  streets;  and  once  he  had  been  saluted  by  a  class 
procession  with  desultory  cries  of  "  Vive  Marot !" 
Mere  rioting  was  then  too  common  in  Paris  to  excite 
particular  attention  individually. 

But  Jean  Marot  had  been  magnified  by  newspaper 
controversy  into  a  formidable  political  leader;  besides 
which  there  were  young  men  here  who  had  followed 
him  a  few  days  before  in  the  riots.  Therefore  he  was 
now  the  cynosure  of  curious  attention. 

From  admiring  glances  the  crowd  of  diners  quickly 
passed  to  complimentary  language  intended  for  his 
ears. 

"  He's  a  brave  young  man !"  "  You  should  have 
seen  him  that  day !"  "  Ah,  but  he's  a  fighter,  is  M. 
Marot !"  "  Un  bon  camarade !"  "  He  is  a  patriot !" 
etc. 


294  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

These  broken  expressions  were  mingled  with  sly 
allusions  to  Mile.  Fouchette  from  the  women,  who 
were  consumed  by  envy.  They  had  heard  of  the  Sava- 
tiere's  conquest  with  disbelief,  now  they  saw  it  with 
their  own  eyes.  The  brazen  thing !  She  was  showing 
him  off. 

"  She's  caught  on  at  last." 

"  Monsieur  has  more  money  than  taste." 

"  Is  he  as  rich  as  they  say?" 

"  The  skinny  model." 

"Model,  bah!" 

"  Model  for  hair-pin,  probably." 

"  The  airs  of  that  kicker !" 

"  He  might  have  got  a  prettier  mistress  without  try- 
ing hard." 

"  He'll  find'her  a  devil." 

"  Oh,  there's  no  doubt  about  it.  He  has  fitted  up 
an  elegant  appartement  for  her  in  the  Rue  St.  Jacques." 

"  Rue  St.  Jacques.    Faugh !" 

It  should  be  unnecessary  to  say  that  these  encomi- 
ums were  not  designed  for  the  ears  of  Mile.  Fouchette, 
though  the  said  ears  must  have  burned  with  self-con- 
sciousness. But  it  may  be  well  enough  to  remark  that 
despite  the  spleen  the  object  of  it  had  risen  immensely 
in  the  estimation  of  the  female  as  well  as  the  male 
habitues  of  Cafe  Weber. 

As  the  couple  occupied  a  table  in  the  extreme  rear, 
the  patrons  in  front  found  it  convenient  to  go  out  by 
way  of  the  Rue  Champollion  in  order  to  see  if  not  to 
bow  to  the  distinguished  guest. 

The  apparent  fact  that  the  new  political  leader  had 
taken  up  with  one  of  the  most  notorious  women  of  the 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  295 

Quartier  Latin  in  no  way  detracted  from  their  esteem 
for  him, — rather  lent  an  agreeable  piquancy  to  his 
character.  On  the  other  hand,  it  raised  Mile.  Fou- 
chette  to  a  certain  degree  of  respectability. 

These  demonstrations  annoyed  our  young  gentleman 
very  much.  Nothing  but  this  patent  fact  saved  them 
from  a  general  reception. 

"  It  is  provoking !"  exclaimed  his  companion. 

"  I  don't  understand  it  at  all,"  said  he. 

"  I  do,"  replied  Mile.  Fouchette. 

"  And,  see,  little  one,  I  don't  like  it." 

"  I  knew  you  wouldn't,  and  that  is  why  I  suggested 
the  right  bank  of  the  river." 

"  True, — I  always  make  a  mistake  when  I  don't  fol- 
low your  advice.  Have  some  more  wine, — I  call  that 
good." 

"  It  ought  to  be  at  two  francs  a  bottle,"  she  retorted. 

"  My  father  would  call  this  rank  poison,  but  it  goes." 

"  Poor  me !  I  never  tasted  any  better,"  laughed  the 
girl,  sipping  the  wine  with  the  air  of  a  connaisseuse. 
"  A  litre  a  cinquante  is  my  tipple,"  she  said. 

"  Now,  what  the  devil  do  all  these  people  mean  ?"  he 
asked,  when  a  party  had  passed  them  with  a  slight 
demonstration. 

"  That  you  are  famous,  monsieur.  I  wish  we  had 
remained  at  home." 

"  So  do  I,  petite,"  he  said. 

"  Let  us  take  our  coffee  there,  at  least,"  she  sug- 
gested. 

"  Good !"  he  cried,—"  by  all  means  1" 

They  were  soon  installed  in  his  small  salon,  where 
she  quickly  spread  a  table  of  dainty  china.  She  had 


296  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

agreed  with  him  in  keeping  his  pictures,  bric-a-brac, 
and  prettiest  dishes. 

"  Ah !  they  are  so  sweet !"  she  would  say.  "  Now 
here  is  a  lovely  blue  cup  for  you.  I  take  the  dear  little 
pink  one, — it's  as  delicate  as  an  egg-shell, — Sevres, 
surely!  And  here's  some  of  my  coffee.  It  is  not  as 
good,  perhaps,  as  you  are  used  to,  but " 

"  Oh,  I'm  used  to  anything, — except  being  stared  at 
and  mobbed  by  a  Tot  of  curious  chaps  as  if  I  were  a 
calf  with  six  legs,  or  had  run  off  with  the  President's 
daughter,  or " 

"  Or  committed  murder,  eh  ?"  said  she.  "  People 
always  stare  at  murderers,  do  they  not?  Still,  it  isn't 
really  bad,  you  know,"  abruptly  returning  to  the  cof- 
fee, "  with  a  petit  verre  and  cigarette." 

"  Au  contraire,"  he  retorted,  gayly. 

And  over  their  coffee  and  cognac  and  cigarettes,  sur- 
rounded by  his  tasteful  belongings,  shut  in  by  the 
heavy  damask  hangings,  under  the  graceful  wreaths 
of  smoke,  they  formed  a  very  pretty  picture.  He,  ro- 
bust, dark,  manly;  she,  frail,  delicate,  blonde,  and  dis- 
tinctively feminine. 

The  comfort  of  it  all  smote  them  alike.  The  conver- 
sation soon  became  forced,  then  ceased,  leaving  each 
silently  immersed  in  thought. 

But  Mile.  Fouchette  welcomed  this  interval  of  silence 
with  a  satisfaction  inexpressible.  She,  too,  was  under 
the  spell  of  the  place  and  the  occasion.  Mile.  Fou- 
chette was  not  a  sentimental  woman,  as  we  have  seen ; 
but  she  had  recently  been  undergoing  a  mental  struggle 
that  taxed  all  her  practical  common  sense.  She  found 
now  that  she  saw  things  more  clearly. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  297 

The  result  frightened  her. 

Mile.  Fouchette  felt  that  she  was  happy,  therefore 
she  was  frightened. 

She  experienced  a  mysterious  glow  of  gladness — the 
gladness  of  mere  living — in  her  veins.  It  permeated 
her  being  and  filled  her  heart  with  warm  desires. 

This  feeling  had  been  stealing  upon  her  so  gradu- 
ally and  insidiously  that  she  had  never  realized  it  until 
this  moment, — the  moment  when  it  had  taken  full 
possession  of  her  soul. 

"  I  love  him !  I  love  him !"  she  repeated  to  herself. 
"  I  have  struggled  against  it, — I  have  denied  it.  I  did 
not  want  to  do  it, — it  is  misery !  But  I  can't  help  it, — 
I  love  him!  I,  Fouchette,  the  spy,  who  would  have 
betrayed  him,  who  wronged  him,  who  thought  love  im- 
possible !" 

She  did  not  try  to  deceive  herself.  She  knew  that 
at  this  moment,  when  her  heart  was  so  full  of  him,  he 
was  thinking  of  another  woman, — a  beautiful  and  pure 
being  that  was  worthy  of  his  love, — that  he  had  for- 
gotten her  very  existence.  She  had  not  the  remotest 
idea  of  trying  to  attract  that  love  to  herself.  She  did 
not  even  indulge  in  the  pardonable  girlish  dreams  in 
which  "  If"  is  the  principal  character. 

He  was  as  impossible  to  her  as  the  pyramids  of 
Egypt.  Therefore  she  was  frightened. 

"  Mon  Dieu !  but  I  surely  do  love  him !"  She  com- 
muned with  her  poor  little  bursting  heart.  "  And  it 
is  beautiful  to  love !"  She  sighed  deeply. 

"  Mademoiselle !" 

She  started  visibly,  as  if  he  had  read  her  thoughts 
as  well  as  heard  her  sigh,  and  felt  the  hot  blood  mantle 


298  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

her  neck  again, — for  the  second  time  within  her 
memory. 

"  Pardon !  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  gently,  "  I  for- 
got. I  was  thinking " 

"  Of  her  ?  Yes, — I  know.  It  is — how  you  startled 
me!" 

There  was  a  perceptible  chord  of  sympathy  in  her 
voice,  and  he  moved  his  chair  around  to  hers  and 
made  as  if  he  would  take  her  hand  in  the  usual  way. 
But  to  his  surprise  she  rose  and,  seating  herself  on  a 
low  divan  some  distance  from  him,  leaned  her  elbows 
on  her  knees  and  rested  her  downcast  face  between  her 
hands.  She  could  not  bear  to  have  him  touch  her. 

"  Mon  enfant !  Mon  amie !"  he  remonstrated,  in  a 
grieved  tone. 

"  Bah !  it  is  nothing,"  she  murmured ;  "  and  nothing 
magnified  is  still  nothing." 

There  was  that  in  her  voice  which  touched  a  heart 
surcharged  with  tenderness.  He  came  over  and  stood 
beside  her. 

"  I  was  thinking " 


"  Of  her, — yes, — I  understand- 


"  And  I  lose  myself  in  my  love,"  he  added. 

"Yes;  love!    Oui  da!" 

She  laughed  a  little  hysterically  and  shrugged  the 
thin  shoulders  without  changing  her  position. 

"  Ah !"  he  exclaimed,  pityingly,  "  you  do  not  know 
what  love  is !" 

"Me?    No!    Why  should  I?" 

She  never  once  looked  up  at  him.    She  dared  not. 

"  And  yet  you  once  said  love  was  everything,"  he 
continued,  thinking  only  of  himself. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  299 

"  Yes, — everything,"  she  repeated,  mechanically. 
"Did  I  say  that?" 

"  And  you  spoke  truly,  though  I  did  not  know  it 
then " 

"  No, — I  did  not  know  it  then,"  she  repeated,  ab- 
sently. 

In  his  self-absorption  he  did  not  see  the  girl  in  the 
shadow  below  him  trembling  and  cowering  as  if  every 
word  he  uttered  were  a  blow. 

"  Love  to  me  is  life !"  he  added,  with  a  mental  exal- 
tation that  lifted  him  among  the  stars. 

Mile.  Fouchette  did  not  follow  him  there.  With  a 
low,  half-smothered  cry  she  had  collapsed  and  rolled 
to  the  floor  in  a  little  quivering  heap. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

As  a  medical  student,  as  well  as  habitue  of  the  quar- 
ter, Jean  Marot  was  not  greatly  alarmed  at  an  ordi- 
nary case  of  hysterics.  He  soon  had  Mile.  Fouchette 
in  her  proper  senses  again. 

He  was  possibly  not  more  stupid  than  any  other 
egoist  under  similar  circumstances,  and  he  attributed 
her  sudden  collapse  to  over-excitement  in  arranging 
his  affairs. 

Mile.  Fouchette  lay  extended  on  his  divan  in  silent 
enjoyment  of  his  manipulations,  refusing  as  long  as 
possible  to  reopen  her  eyes.  When  she  finally  con- 
cluded to  do  so  he  was  smoothing  back  her  dishevelled 
hair  and  gently  bathing  her  face  with  his  wet  hand- 
kerchief. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  mon  enfant,"  he  said,  cheerily, 
"  you  are  all  right.  But  you  have  worked  too 
hard " 

"  Oh !  no,  no,  no !"  she  interrupted.  "  And  it  has 
been  such  a  pleasure !" 

"  Yes ;  but  too  much  pleasure " 

She  sighed.  Her  eyes  were  wet, — she  tried  to  turn 
them  away. 

"  Hold  on,  petite !   none  of  that !" 

"  Then  you  must  not  talk  to  me  in  that  way, — not 
now!" 

"No?    And  pray,  how,  then,  mademoiselle?" 

"  Talk  of — tell  me  of  your  love,  monsieur,  mon 
ami.  You  were  speaking  of  it  but  now.  Tell  me  of 
that,  please.  It  is  so — love  is  so  beautiful,  Monsieur 
300 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  301 

Jean!     Talk  to  me  of  her, — of  Mademoiselle  Remy. 
I  have  a  woman's  curiosity,  monsieur,  mon  frere." 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  called  him  brother. 
She  had  risen  upon  her  elbow  and  nervously  laid  her 
small  hand  upon  his. 

She  invited  herself  to  the  torture.  It  had  an  irre- 
sistible fascination  for  her.  She  gave  the  executioner 
the  knife  and  begged  him  to  explore  and  lay  bare 
her  bleeding  heart. 

"  But,  mon  enfant " 

"  Oh !  it  will  do  me  good  to  hear  you,"  she  pleaded. 

It  does  not  require  much  urging  to  induce  a  young 
man  in  love  to  talk  about  his  passion  to  a  sympathetic 
listener.  And  there  never  was  time  or  place  more  pro- 
pitious or  auditor  more  tender  of  spirit. 

He  began  at  the  beginning,  when  he  first  met  Mile. 
Remy  with  Lerouge,  every  detail  of  which  was  fixed 
upon  his  memory.  He  told  how  he  sought  her  in 
Rue  Monge,  how  Lerouge  interposed,  how  he  quar- 
relled with  his  friend,  how  the  latter  changed  his  ad- 
dress and  kept  the  girl  under  close  confinement  to  pre- 
vent his  seeing  her, — Jean  was  certain  of  this. 

Monsieur  Lerouge  had  a  right  to  protect  his  sister, 
even  against  his  late  friend ;  and  even  if  she  had  been 
his  mistress,  Jean  now  argued,  Lerouge  was  justified ; 
but  love  is  something  that  in  the  Latin  rises  superior 
to  obstacles,  beats  down  all  opposition,  is  obstinate, 
unreasonable,  and  uncharitable. 

When  Mile.  Fouchette,  going  straight  to  the  core 
of  the  matter,  asked  him  what  real  ground  he  had 
for  presuming  that  his  attentions,  if  permitted,  would 
have  been  agreeable  to  Mile.  Remy,  Jean  confessed 


302  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

reluctantly  that  there  were  no  reasons  for  any  conclu- 
sion on  this  point. 

"  But,"  he  wound  up,  impetuously,  "  when  she 
knows — if  she  knew — how  I  worship  her  she  must 
respond  to  my  affection.  A  love  such  as  mine  could 
not  be  forever  resisted,  mademoiselle.  I  feel  it!  I 
know  it!" 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  Jean,  it  would  be  impossible  to — 
to  not " 

"You  think  so,  too,  chere  amie?" 

"  Very  sure,"  said  Mile.  Fouchette. 

"  Now  you  can  understand,  Fouchette.  You  are  a 
woman.  Put  yourself  in  her  place, — imagine  that  you 
are  Mademoiselle  Remy  at  this  moment.  And  you 
look  something  like  her,  really, — that  is,  at  least  you 
have  the  exact  shade  of  hair.  What  beautiful  hair 
you  have,  Fouchette!  Suppose  you  were  Mademoi- 
selle Remy,  I  was  going  to  say,  and  I  were  to  tell  you 
all  this  and — and  how  much  I  loved  you, — how  I 
adored  you, — and  got  down  on  my  knees  to  you  and 
begged  of  you " 

"Oh!" 

"  And  asked  you  for  a  corner — one  small  corner  in 
your  heart " 

"Ah!   monami!" 

"  What  would  you " 

"  Shall  I  show  you,  mon  f rere  ?" 

"Yes,— quickly!" 

He  had,  with  French  gesture,  suiting  the  action  to 
the  word,  knelt  beside  her  and  extended  his  arms,  as 
if  it  were  the  woman  he  loved. 

"  Mon  Dieu !"  cried  Mile.  Fouchette,  throwing  her- 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  303 

self  upon  his  breast  precipitately  and  entwining  his 
neck  with  her  arms, — "  it  would  be  this !  It  would  be 
this !  Ah !  mon  Dieu !  It  surely  would  be  this !" 

For  the  moment  Jean  was  so  carried  away  by  his 
imagination  that  he  accepted  Mile.  Fouchette  as  Mile. 
Remy  and  pressed  her  to  his  heart.  He  mingled  his 
tears  and  kisses  with  hers.  Her  fair  hair  fell  upon 
his  face  and  he  covered  it  with  passionate  caresses. 
He  poured  out  the  endearing  words  of  a  heart  sur- 
charged with  love.  It  was  a  very  clever  make-believe 
on  both  sides, — very  clever  and  realistic. 

As  a  medical  adviser  of  an  hysterical  young  woman 
Jean  Marot  could  scarcely  have  been  recommended. 

And  it  must  be  remarked,  in  the  same  connection, 
that  Mile.  Fouchette  remained  in  this  embrace  a  good 
deal  longer  than  even  a  clever  imitation  seemed  to 
demand.  However,  since  the  real  thing  could  not 
have  lasted  forever,  there  must  be  a  limitation  to  this 
rehearsal.  Both  had  become  silent  and  thoughtful. 

It  was  Mile.  Fouchette  who  first  moved  to  disen- 
gage, and  she  did  so  with  a  sigh  so  profound  as  to 
appear  quite  real.  This  was  the  second,  and  she  felt 
it  would  be  the  last  time.  They  would  never  again 
hold  each  other  thus.  Her  eyes  were  red  and  swollen 
and  her  dishevelled  hair  stuck  to  her  tear-stained  face. 
She  was  not  at  all  pretty  at  the  moment,  yet  Jean 
would  have  gone  to  the  wood  of  St.  Cloud  sword  in 
hand  to  prove  her  the  best-hearted  little  woman  in  the 
world. 

"  Voila !"  she  exclaimed,  with  affected  gayety,  "  how 
foolish  I  am,  monsieur!  But  you  are  so  eloquent  of 
your  passion  that  you  carry  one  away  with  you." 


304  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  I  hope  it  will  have  that  effect  upon  Mademoiselle 
Remy,"  he  said,  but  rather  doubtfully. 

"  So  I  have  given  a  satisfactory " 

"  So  real,  indeed,  Fouchette,  that  I  almost  forgot 
it  was  only  you." 

Mademoiselle  Fouchette  was  bending  over  the  basin. 

"I  think"— splash— "  that  I'll"— splash— "  go  on 
the  stage,"  she  murmured. 

"  You'd  be  a  hit,  Fouchette." 

"  If  I  had  a  lover — er — equal  to  the  occasion,  per- 
haps." 

"Oh!  as  to  that " 

"  Now,  Monsieur  Jean,  we  have  not  yet  settled  your 
affair,"  she  interrupted,  throwing  herself  again  upon 
the  divan  among  the  cushions. 

"  No ;  not  quite,"  said  he. 

She  tried  to  think  connectedly.  But  everything 
seemed  such  a  jumble.  And  out  of  this  chaos  of 
thought  came  the  details  of  the  miserable  part  she 
had  played. 

Her  part! 

What  if  he  knew  that  she  was  merely  the  wretched 
tool  of  the  police  ?  What  would  he  say  if  he  came  to 
know  that  she  had  once  reported  his  movements  at  the 
Prefecture  ?  And  what  would  he  do  if  he  were  aware 
that  she  knew  the  true  relation  of  Lerouge  and  Mile. 
Remy  and  had  intentionally  misled  both  him  and  Made- 
leine ? 

Fortunately,  Mile.  Fouchette  had  been  spared  the 
knowledge  of  the  real  cause  of  Madeleine's  misfor- 
tune,— the  jealous  grisette  whom  she  had  set  on  to 
worse  than  murder. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  305 

But  she  was  thinking  only  of  Jean  Marot  now. 
Love  had  awakened  her  soul  to  the  enormity  of  her 
offence.  It  also  caused  her  to  suffer  remorse  for  her 
general  conduct.  Before  she  loved  she  never  cared; 
she  had  never  suffered  mentally.  Now  she  was  on 
the  rack.  She  was  being  punished. 

Love  had  furrowed  the  virgin  ground  of  her  heart 
and  turned  up  self-consciousness  and  conscience,  and 
sowed  womanly  sweetness,  and  tenderness,  and  pity, 
and  humility,  and  the  sensitiveness  to  pain. 

Mile.  Fouchette,  living  in  the  shadow  of  the  world's 
greatest  educational  institutions,  was,  perhaps  natu- 
rally, a  heathen.  She  feared  neither  God  nor  devil. 

Jean  Marot  was  her  only  tangible  idea  of  God.  His 
contempt  would  be  her  punishment.  To  live  where  he 
was  not  would  be  Hell. 

To  secure  herself  against  this  damnation  she  was 
ready  to  sacrifice  anything, — everything!  She  would 
have  willingly  offered  herself  to  be  cuffed  and  beaten 
every  day  of  her  life  by  him,  and  would  have  wor- 
shipped him  and  kissed  the  hand  that  struck  her. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  the  purest  and  holiest  love  is  that 
which  stands  ready  to  sacrifice  everything  to  render 
its  object  happy;  that,  blotting  out  self  and  trampling 
natural  desire  underfoot,  thinks  only  of  the  one  great 
aim  and  end,  the  happiness  of  the  beloved. 

This  was  the  instinct  now  of  the  girl  who  struggled 
with  her  emotions,  who  sought  a  way  out  that  would 
accomplish  that  end  very  much  desired  by  her  as 
well  as  Jean.  There  was  at  the  same  time  a  faint 
idea  that  her  own  material  happiness  lay  in  the  same 
direction. 

20 


306  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  Monsieur  Jean !" 

"Well?"' 

"  You  must  make  friends  with  Lerouge." 

"  But,  mon  enfant,  if " 

"  There  are  no  '  huts'  and  '  if  s.'  You  must  make 
friends  with  the  brother  or  you  can  never  hope  to  win 
his  sister.  That  is  clear.  Write  to  him, — apologize  to 
him, — anything " 

"  I  don't  just  see  my  way  open,"  he  began.  "  You 
can't  apologize  to  a  man  who  tries  to  assassinate  you 
on  sight." 

"  You  were  friends  before  that  day  in  the  Place  de 
la  Concorde?" 

"  We  had  not  come  to  blows." 

"Politics,— is  that  all?" 

"  That  is  all  that  divides  us,  and,  parbleu !  it  divides 
a  good  many  in  France  just  now." 

"  Yes.  Monsieur  Jean,  you  must  change  your  poli- 
tics," she  promptly  responded. 

"Wha-at?    Never!    Why " 

"  Not  for  the  woman  you  love  ?" 

"  But,  Fouchette,  you  don't  understand,  mon  enfant. 
A  gentleman  can't  change  his  politics  as  he  does  his 
coat." 

"  Men  do,  monsieur, — men  do, — yes,  every  day." 

«  But " 

"  What  does  it  amount  to,  anyhow  ? — politics  ?  Bah ! 
One  side  is  just  like  the  other  side." 

"Oh!   oh!" 

"  Half  of  them  don't  know.  It's  only  the  difference 
between  celui-ci  and  celui-la.  You  must  quit  ci  and 
join  la,  n'est-ce  pas?" 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  307 

Mile.  Fouchette  laid  this  down  as  if  it  were  merely 
a  choice  between  mutton  and  lamb  chops  for  dinner. 
But  Jean  Marot  walked  impatiently  up  and  down. 

"  You  overlook  the  possible  existence  of  such  a 
thing  as  principle, — as  honor,  mademoiselle,"  he  ob- 
served, somewhat  coldly. 

"  Rubbish !"   said  Mile.  Fouchette. 

"  Oh !  oh !  what  political  morals !"  he  laughingly 
exclaimed,  with  an  affectation  of  horror. 

"  There  are  no  morals  in  politics." 

"  Precious  little,  truly !" 

"  Principles  are  a  matter  of  belief, — political  prin- 
ciples. You  change  your  belief, — the  principles  go 
with  it;  you  can't  desert  'em, — they  follow  you.  It 
is  the  rest  of  them,  those  who  disagree  with  you, 
who  never  have  any  principles.  Is  it  not  so,  mon- 
sieur?" 

He  laughed  the  more  as  he  saw  that  she  was  serious. 
And  yet  there  was  a  nipping  satire  in  her  words  that 
tickled  his  fancy. 

A  gentle  knock  at  the  door  interrupted  this  political 
argument.  A  peculiar,  diffident,  apologetic  knock, 
like  the  forerunner  of  the  man  come  to  borrow  money. 
There  was  a  red  bell-cord  hanging  outside,  too,  but 
the  rap  came  from  somebody  too  timid  to  make  a  noise. 

Mile.  Fouchette  started  up  as  if  it  were  the  signal 
for  execution.  She  turned  pale,  and  placed  her  finger 
on  her  lips.  Then,  with  a  significant  glance  at  Jean, 
she  gathered  herself  together  and  tiptoed  to  a  closet 
in  the  wall. 

She  entered  the  closet  and  closed  the  door  softly 
upon  herself. 


308  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

Jean  had  regarded  her  with  surprise,  then  with  as- 
tonishment He  saw  no  reason  for  this  singular  de- 
velopment of  timidity.  As  soon  as  he  had  recovered 
sufficiently  he  opened  the  door. 

A  tall,  thin  man  quietly  stepped  into  the  room,  as 
quietly  shut  the  door  behind  him,  and  addressed  the 
young  man  briskly, — 

"  Monsieur  Marot  ?" 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  at  your  service." 

"  So." 

"  And  this  is — ah !    I  remember — this  is -" 

"  Inspector  Loup." 

The  fishy  eyes  of  Monsieur  1'Inspecteur  had  been 
swimming  about  in  their  fringed  pools,  taking  in  every 
detail  of  the  chamber.  They  penetrated  the  remotest 
corners,  plunged  at  the  curtains  of  the  bed,  and  finally 
rested  for  a  wee  little  moment  upon  the  two  cups  and 
saucers,  the  two  empty  glasses,  the  two  spoons,  which 
still  remained  on  the  table.  And  yet  had  not  Inspector 
Loup  called  attention  to  the  fact  one  would  never  have 
suspected  that  he  had  seen  anything. 

"  Pardon,  Monsieur  Marot,"  he  said,  half  behind 
his  hand,  "  but  I  am  not  disturbing  any  quiet  little — 
er " 

"  Not  yet,  Monsieur  ITnspecteur,"  replied  the  young 
man,  suggestively.  "  Go  on,  I  beg." 

"Ah!  not  yet?  Good!  Very  well,— then  I  will 
try  not  to  do  so." 

Whereupon  Monsieur  ITnspecteur  dived  down  Into 
a  deep  pocket  and  brought  up  a  package  neatly 
wrapped  in  pink  paper  and  sealed  with  a  red  seal. 

The  package  bore  the  address  of  "  M.  Jean  Marot." 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  309 

"  May  I  ask  if  Monsieur  Marot  can  divine  the  con- 
tents of  this  parcel  ?" 

"  Monsieur  1'Inspecteur  will  pardon  me, — I'm  not 
good  at  guessing." 

"  Monsieur  missed  some  personal  property  after  his 
arrest " 

"  If  that  is  my  property,"  Jean  interrupted, 
brusquely,  "  it  ought  to  be  a  gold  watch,  hunting 
case,  chronometer,  Geneva  make,  with  eighteen-carat 
gold  chain,  dragon-head  design  for  hook ;  a  bunch  of 
keys,  seven  in  number,  and  a  door-key,  and  about  one 
hundred  and  eighty  francs  in  paper,  gold,  and  silver." 

"  Very  good.  Excellent  memory,  monsieur.  It 
ought  to  serve  you  well  enough  to  keep  out  of  such 
brawls  hereafter.  Here, — examine!" 

Hastily  opening  the  package,  Jean  found  his  watch 
and  chain  and  everything  else  intact,  so  far  as  he  could 
recollect.  He  expressed  his  delight, — and  when  his 
grasp  left  the  thin  hand  of  the  police  official  it  was  to 
leave  a  twenty-franc  gold  piece  there. 

"  Will  monsieur  kindly  sign  this  receipt  ?"  inquired 
Monsieur  1'Inspecteur,  whose  hand  had  closed  upon 
the  coin  with  true  official  instinct. 

"  But  how  and  where  did  they  get  the  things  back  ?" 
inquired  Jean,  having  complied  with  this  reasonable 
request. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  that,"  said  the  man. 

"  And  how  did  they  know  I  had  lost  them  ?  I  never 
complained." 

"  Then  perhaps  somebody  else  did,  eh  ?" 

The  bright  little  fishy  right  eye  partially  closed  to 
indicate  a  roguish  expression. 


310  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  Bon  soir,  monsieur." 

And  with  another  wink  which  meant  "  You  can't 
fool  me,  young  man,"  he  was  gone. 

"  Well,  this  is  luck !"  muttered  Jean  aloud.  He  ex- 
amined the  watch  lovingly.  It  was  a  present  from  his 
father.  "  But  how  did  they  get  these  ?  how  did  they 
know  they  were  mine?  and  how  did  they  know  where 
Hived?  Who  asked " 

He  went  back  to  the  closet  and  told  Mile.  Fouchette 
the  coast  was  clear.  There  was  no  answer.  He  tried 
the  door.  It  was  locked.  She  had  turned  the  key  on 
the  inside. 

"  Mademoiselle !    Come !" 

He  waited  and  listened.    Not  a  sound. 

"  Mademoiselle !    Ah,  <;a !    He  is  gone  long  ago !" 

Still  not  a  stir.  Perhaps  she  was  asleep, — or,  maybe, 
— why,  she  would  smother  in  that  place ! 

He  kicked  the  door  impatiently.  He  got  down  upon 
his  breast  and  put  his  ear  to  the  crevice  below.  If 
she  were  prostrated  he  might  hear  her  breathing. 

All  was  silence. 

This  closet  door  was  the  merest  sheathing,  flush 
with  the  wall  and  covered  with  the  same  paper,  after 
the  fashion  of  the  ancient  Parisian  appartements, 
and  had  nothing  tangible  to  the  grasp  save  the  key, 
which  was  now  on  the  inside.  Jean  tried  to  jostle 
this  out  of  place  by  inserting  other  keys,  but  unsuc- 
cessfully. 

"  Sacre  !"  he  cried,  in  despair ;   "  but  we'll  see !" 

And  he  hastily  brought  a  combination  poker  and 
stove-lifter  from  the  kitchen,  and,  inserting  the  sharp 
end  in  the  crack  near  the  lock,  gave  the  improvised 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  311 

"  jimmy"  a  vigorous  wrench.  The  light  wood-work 
flew  in  splinters. 

At  the  same  moment  the  interior  of  the  closet  was 
thus  suddenly  exposed  to  the  uninterrupted  view. 

Jean  recoiled  in  astonishment  that  was  almost  terror. 
If  he  had  been  confronted  with  the  suspended  corpse 
of  Mile.  Fouchette  he  could  have  scarcely  been  more 
startled. 

For  Mile.  Fouchette  was  not  there ! 

The  cold  sweat  started  out  of  him.  He  felt  among 
his  clothes, — passed  his  hand  over  the  three  remain- 
ing walls.  They  appeared  solid  enough. 

"  Que  diable !  but  where  is  she,  then  ?"  he  muttered. 

He  was  dazed, — rendered  incapable  of  reasoning. 
He  went  around  .vaguely  examining  his  rooms,  peering 
behind  curtains  and  even  moving  bits  of  furniture,  as 
if  Mile.  Fouchette  were  the  elusive  collar-button  and 
might  have  rolled  out  of  sight  somewhere  among  the 
furniture. 

"  Peste !  this  is  astonishing !" 

All  of  this  time  there  was  the  lock  with  the  key  on 
the  inside.  Without  being  a  spiritualist,  Jean  felt  that 
nobody  but  spirits  could  come  out  of  a  room  leaving 
the  doors  locked  and  the  keys  on  the  inside.  But  for 
that  lock,  he  might  have  even  set  it  down  to  optical 
illusion  and  have  persuaded  himself  that  perhaps  she 
had  really  never  entered  that  place  at  all. 

As  Jean  Marot  was  not  wholly  given  to  illusions  or 
superstitions,  he  logically  concluded  that  there  was 
some  other  outlet  to  that  closet. 

"  And  why  such  a  thing  as  that  ?"  he  asked  himself. 
What  could  it  be  for?  Was  it  a  trap?  Perhaps  it 


312  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

was  a  police  souriciere?  He  remembered  the  warning 
of  Benoit. 

Jean  hesitated, — quite  naturally,  since  he  was  up  to 
the  tricks  of  the  political  police.  If  this  were  a  trap, 
why,  Mile.  Fouchette  must  have  known  all  about  it! 
Yet  that  would  be  impossible. 

Then  he  thought  of  M.  de  Beauchamp,  and  his  brow 
cleared.  Whatever  the  arrangement,  it  could  have 
never  been  designed  with  regard  to  the  present  occu- 
pant of  the  appartement, — and  M.  de  Beauchamp  had 
escaped. 

He  lighted  a  cigarette  and  took  a  turn  or  two  up  and 
down, — a  habit  of  his  when  lost  in  thought. 

"  Ah !  it  is  a  door  of  love !"  he  concluded.  "  Yes ; 
that  is  all.  Well,  we  shall  find  out  about  that  pretty 
soon." 

The  more  he  thought  of  the  handsome,  godlike 
artist  who  had  so  mysteriously  fled,  why,  the  more  he 
recalled  Mile.  Fouchette's  confusion  on  a  certain  even- 
ing when  he  first  called  on  her,  and  her  recent  disin- 
clination to  discuss  his  disappearance.  He  was  now 
certain  that  this  mysterious  exit  emptied  into  her  room. 
He  smiled  at  his  own  sagacity.  His  philosophy  found 
the  same  expression  of  the  cabman  of  Rue  Monge, — 

"  Toujours  de  meme,  ces  femmes-la !" 

He  laughed  at  the  trick  she  had  played  him;  he 
would  show  her  how  quickly  he  had  reached  its  solu- 
tion. He  went  outside  and  tapped  gently  on  her  door. 

No  reply. 

He  tried  the  lock,  but  it  was  unyielding.  Examina- 
tion by  the  light  of  a  match  showed  no  key  on  the  in- 
side. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  313 

"  Eh  bien !  I  will  go  by  the  same  route,"  he  said, 
returning  to  his  room. 

He  brought  a  lighted  candle  to  bear  on  the  magical 
closet.  It  proved  to  be,  as  stated,  the  ordinary  blind 
closet  of  the  ancient  Parisian  houses,  the  depth  of  the 
wall's  thickness  and  about  three  feet  wide;  the  door 
being  flush  with  the  wall  and  covered  with  the  same 
paper,  the  opening  was  unnoticeable  to  the  casual  view. 

All  Parisian  doors  close  with  a  snap-lock,  and  a  key 
is  indispensable.  This  knowledge  is  acquired  by  the 
foreigner  after  leaving  his  key  on  the  inside  a  few 
times  and  hunting  up  a  locksmith  after  midnight. 

The  back  of  these  closets,  which  are  used  for  cup- 
boards as  well  as  receptacles  for  clothing,  abuts  on  the 
adjoining  room,  quite  often,  in  a  thin  sheathing  of  lath 
and  plaster,  which,  being  covered  with  the  wall-paper, 
is  concealed  from  the  neighboring  eyes,  but  through 
which  a  listener  may  be  constantly  informed  as  to  what 
is  going  on  next  door. 

A  superficial  survey  of  the  place  having  developed 
no  unusual  characteristics,  Jean  took  down  all  of  his 
clothing  and  emptied  the  closet  of  its  contents  to  the 
last  old  shoe. 

With  the  candle  to  assist  him,  he  then  carefully  ex- 
amined the  rear  wall. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  had  her  reasons  for  not  wishing 
to  meet  Inspector  Loup  anywhere  or  at  any  time. 
These  reasons  were  especially  sound,  considering  this 
particular  time  and  place. 

And  that  the  knock  on  Jean's  door  was  that  of  In- 
spector Loup  she  had  no  more  doubt  than  if  she  had 
been  confronted  by  that  official  in  person. 

Therefore  her  flight. 

The  visit  of  Inspector  Loup  had  the  same  effect  upon 
Mile.  Fouchette  that  the  unexpected  appearance  of  the 
general  of  an  army  might  have  upon  a  sleepy  picket- 
guard  or  a  man  off  post.  Inspector  Loup  was  to  her 
a  sort  of  human  monster — a  moral  devil-fish — that  not 
even  the  cleverest  could  escape  if  he  chose  to  reach 
out  for  them. 

Mile.  Fouchette  had  been  seized  by  the  tentacles  of 
Inspector  Loup  in  her  infancy,  as  has  been  seen,  and 
from  that  moment  had  become  the  creature  of  his 
imperial  will, — had,  in  fact,  finally  become  one  of  the 
myriad  infinitesimal  tentacles  herself,  subservient  to 
the  master-mind.  Whatever  scruples  she  had  imbibed 
from  the  society  of  the  Rendez-Vous  pour  Cochers 
had  been  dissipated  by  the  Jesuit  sisters  of  Le  Bon 
Pasteur.  In  the  select  circle  of  the  vagabonds  of  the 
Porte  de  Charenton  and  robbers  of  the  wood  of  Vin- 
cennes  the  police  agent  was  execrated,  and  the  secret 
informer,  or  spy,  was  deemed  the  most  despicable  of 
human  creatures  and  worthy  only  of  a  violent  death; 
whereas  the  good  Mother  Superieure  of  Le  Bon  Pas- 
teur encouraged  the  tale-bearer  and  rewarded  the  in- 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  315 

former  with  her  favor  and  the  assurance  of  the  Divine 
blessing.  Even  the  good  Sister  Agnes — now  already 
a  kind  of  shadowy  memory — had  taught  the  waif  that 
spying  out  and  reporting  to  the  constituted  authorities 
was  commendable  and  honorable. 

And  to  do  Mile.  Fouchette  full  justice  she  so  profited 
by  these  religious  teachings  that  she  was  enabled  to 
impart  valuable  inside  information  to  Inspector  Loup's 
branch  of  the  government  concerning  the  royalist  plot- 
tings  at  Le  Bon  Pasteur.  The  importance  of  these 
revelations  Mile.  Fouchette  herself  did  not  understand, 
but  that  it  was  of  great  value  to  the  ministry — as  pos- 
sibly corroborating  other  facts  of  a  similar  nature  in 
their  possession — was  evidenced  by  the  transfer  of 
Mile.  Fouchette's  name  to  a  special  list  of  secret  agents 
at  the  Ministry,  with  liberty  to  make  special  reports 
over  the  head  of  Monsieur  1'Inspecteur  himself. 

From  that  moment  the  latter  official  watched  Mile. 
Fouchette  with  a  vigilant  eye ;  for  under  the  spy  sys- 
tem agents  were  employed  to  watch  and  report  the 
actions  of  other  agents.  This  held  good  from  the  top 
of  the  Secret  Service  down, — reminding  one  of  the 
vermin  of  Hudibras  that — 

"  had  fleas  to  bite  "em, 
And  these  same  fleas  had  lesser  fleas, 
So  on  ad  infinitum." 

In  Mile.  Fouchette  the  government  had  found  one 
of  the  lesser  fleas,  but  none  the  less  sharp,  shrewd,  ac- 
tive, and  unconscionable. 

Up  to  a  quite  recent  period. 

Mile.  Fouchette's  reports  to  the  Prefecture  had  lat- 


316  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

terly  betrayed  a  laxity  of  interest  that  invited  official 
attention,  if  they  did  not  call  down  upon  her  the  offi- 
cial censure. 

The  girl  was  conscious  of  this.  Half  sullen,  half 
defiant,  she  was  struggling  under  the  weight  of  the 
new  views  of  life  recently  acquired.  Like  the  rest  of 
the  intelligent  world,  whose  wisdom  chiefly  consists  in 
unlearning  what  it  has  already  learned,  Mile.  Fouchette 
was  somewhat  confused  at  the  rapidity  with  which  old 
ideas  went  to  pieces  and  new  ideas  crowded  upon  her 
mind. 

Because — well,  because  of  Jean  Marot. 

A  single  look  from  Inspector  Loup  before  Jean 
would  terrify  her, — a  word  would  crush  her. 

She  must  have  time. 

And  why  did  Inspector  Loup  come  there  in  person 
as  errand-boy  unless  for  another  purpose?  She 
thought  of  the  secret  agents  who  usually  accompanied 
Inspector  Loup.  She  knew  that  at  this  moment  they 
were  spread  out  below  like  the  videttes  of  an  army. 
They  were  down  in  the  Rue  St.  Jacques  in  their  usual 
function  of  Inspector  Loup's  eyes  that  saw  everything 
and  Inspector  Loup's  ears  that  heard  everything. 

This  visit  to  Jean  was  a  mere  pretext  that  covered 
something  more  important.  Was  it  concerning  Jean? 
Or,  was  it  her?  Perhaps  Monsieur  1'Inspecteur 
wanted  her, — a  species  of  flattery  which  would  have 
been  incense  to  her  a  month  ago,  and  was  now  a  terror. 

It  was  only  a  few  days  since  she  had  earned  fifty 
francs  and  the  compliments  of  Inspector  Loup.  It 
was  true,  Monsieur  de  Beauchamp  had  got  away  to 
Brussels,  the  centre  of  the  Orleans  conspiracy. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  317 

He  was  the  first  victim  of  the  new  ministry,  and  his 
flight  indicated  the  change  of  policy  as  to  the  well- 
known  and  openly  tolerated  machinations  of  the  royal- 
ists. Some  of  the  more  timid  Orleanists  in  Paris  and 
the  provinces,  recognizing  the  signal,  took  the  alarm 
and  also  put  the  frontier  between  them  and  Inspector 
Loup. 

Mile.  Fouchette's  conscience  was  clear;  she  had 
combined  feminine  philanthropy  with  duty  in  Mon- 
sieur de  Beauchamp's  case — he  was  such  a  handsome 
and  such  an  agreeable  gentleman — and  had  given  him 
the  straight  tip  after  having  betrayed  him.  She  had 
not  repented  this  good  action,  but  she  felt  the  cold 
chills  again  when  she  thought  of  Inspector  Loup.  She 
was  only  a  poor  petite  moucharde, — a  word  from  him 
— nay,  a  nod,  a  significant  wink — would  deprive  her  of 
the  sunshine  that  ripens  the  grapes  of  France. 

When  Mile.  Fouchette  fled  before  Inspector  Loup's 
knock  she  took  the  key  of  the  closet  and  these  swift  re- 
flections with  her.  The  snap-lock  was  familiar  to  her, 
and  the  key  was  the  only  means  of  pulling  the  door 
shut  upon  herself,  and  the  only  means  of  opening  it 
again  when  she  chose  to  come  out. 

She  leaned  against  the  side  of  the  dark  box  and 
listened.  The  sound  of  Monsieur  ITnspecteur's  soft 
voice  did  not  startle  her, — she  knew  it.  She  would 
have  been  surprised  if  it  had  been  anything  else.  The 
watch  and  chain  episode  reassured  her  but  little, — be- 
yond the  assurance  that  Jean  was  in  no  immediate 
danger. 

She  got  over  in  the  farthest  corner  behind  the 
clothes,  thinking  to  have  some  fun  with  Jean  when  he 


318  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

should  come  to  search  for  her.  The  wall  was  very 
thick  and  there  was  ample  space  behind  her,  but  this 
space  seemed  to  give  way  and  let  her  back  farther  and 
farther,  unexpectedly,  as  one  leans  against  an  opening 
door. 

It  was  a  door.  And  it  let  her  into  the  wall,  ap- 
parently, and  so  suddenly  that  she  lost  her  balance. 

As  soon  as  she  had  recovered  from  her  astonish- 
ment she  stood  perfectly  still  for  a  few  moments  and 
listened  attentively.  Fortunately,  she  had  made  no 
noise. 

"  Dear  me !  but  this  is  very  curious,"  she  murmured, 
feeling  the  walls  on  all  sides. 

She  was  in  another  closet  similar  to  the  one  she  had 
just  left, — she  could  feel  the  empty  hooks  above  her 
head.  Her  hand  struck  a  key. 

All  the  curiosity  of  the  moucharde  came  over  her. 
She  forgot  all  about  Jean, — even  Inspector  Loup.  She 
turned  the  key  slowly  and  noiselessly  and  opened  the 
door, — a  little  at  first,  then  more  boldly. 

She  heard  nothing.  She  saw  nothing.  Whatever 
the  place  it  was  as  black  as  pitch. 

She  now  recalled  the  mysterious  goings  and  comings 
of  the  friends  of  Monsieur  de  Beauchamp, — the  dis- 
appearance of  half  a  dozen  at  a  time, — the  peculiar 
noises  heard  from  her  side  of  the  closet. 

"  Truly,  this  is  the  back  shop  of  Monsieur  de  Beau- 
champ,"  said  she,  as  she  stumbled  upon  a  box.  "  If  I 
only  had  a  candle  or  a  match." 

She  felt  the  box,  which  was  almost  square,  and  was 
so  heavy  she  could  scarcely  raise  one  end  of  it. 

She  groped  along  the  wall,  where  similar  boxes  were 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  319 

piled  up,  and  began  to  wonder  what  on  earth  Monsieur 
de  Beauchamp  had  stored  there  in  his  back  shop. 

A  startling  suggestion  stole  into  her  mind, — perhaps 
it  was 

She  hastily  sought  the  door  by  which  she  had  en- 
tered, and  in  her  excitement  she  stumbled  against  it. 

The  door  closed  with  a  snap. 

Mile.  Fouchette  was  not  afraid  of  being  alone  in  the 
dark,  yet  she  trembled  nervously  from  head  to  foot. 

She  knew  that  the  key  was  on  the  inside ! 

Then  she  remembered  that  other  door  only  a  few 
feet  away  with  its  key  on  the  inside  and  with  Jean 
Marot  on  the  outside.  And  she  trembled  more  than 
ever. 

What  would  Jean  think  of  her  ? 

Of  course,  she  knew  he  would  be  likely  to  force  the 
closet  door;  but  when  he  had  found  her  missing, — 
what  then?  Would  he  be  angry?  Would  he  not  sus- 
pect some  trick?  Would  he  persevere  till  he  found 
her? 

It  was  all  about  Jean, — of  herself  -she  scarcely 
thought,  only  so  far  as  the  effect  might  come  through 
him.  All  at  once  she  felt  rather  than  heard  the  dull 
sound  of  the  breaking  door  beyond. 

"  Ah !  he  has  broken  the  door.  He  will  come !  He 
has  discovered  it !" 

She  beat  the  walls  with  her  small  fists, — kicked  the 
unresponsive  stone  with  her  thin  little  shoes, — her 
blows  gave  out  no  sound.  If  she  only  had  something 
to  knock  with 

She  fumbled  blindly  in  the  darkness  among  the 
boxes.  Perhaps — yes,  here  was  one  open,  and — 


320  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"Voila!" 

She  laid  her  hand  on  a  heavy,  cylindrical  substance 
like  a  piece  of  iron  gas-pipe,  only — funny,  but  it  was 
packed  in  something  like  sawdust. 

She  tapped  smartly  on  the  wall  with  it — once,  twice, 
thrice — at  regular  intervals,  then  listened. 

The  two  similar  raps  from  the  other  side  showed 
that  she  was  both  heard  and  understood. 

"  He  has  found  it.    Ah !  here  he  is !" 

And  with  her  last  exclamation  Jean  appeared,  candle 
in  hand,  peering  into  the  room  and  at  Mile.  Fouchette 
in  the  dazed  way  more  characteristic  of  the  somnam- 
bulist than  of  one  awake  and  in  the  full  possession  of 
his  senses. 

"  Mon  Dieu !  mon  enfant,  what  have  we  here  ?"  he 
ejaculated  as  soon  as  he  recovered  breath.  "  What  is 
it?  Are  you  all  right?  How  foolish  you  are,  little 
one!" 

"  All  right,  mon  ami." 

And  she  briefly  and  rapidly  recited  her  adventures, 
at  the  end  triumphantly  exhibiting  the  bit  of  iron  pipe 
with  which  she  had  opened  communication. 

His  face  suddenly  froze  with  horror ! 

"  Give  it  to  me !" 

He  snatched  it  from  her  hand  excitedly  and  held  it 
an  instant  apart  from  his  candle. 

"  A  thousand  thunders !"  he  gasped,  at  the  same 
time  handling  the  thing  gingerly  and  looking  for  a 
place  to  lay  it  down. 

«  But " 

"  It  is  a  dynamite  bomb !"  he  said,  hoarsely. 

"  Mon  Dieu !" 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  321 

She  turned  as  white  as  a  sheet  and  staggered  back- 
ward only  to  come  in  contact  with  one  of  the  boxes  on 
the  floor.  She  recoiled  from  this  as  if  she  had  been 
threatened  by  a  snake.  Mile.  Fouchette  was  quite 
feminine.  A  mouse  now  would  have  scared  her  into 
convulsions. 

"  Where  did  you  get  this,  petite  ?"  he  asked.  "  It  is 
death, — a  horrible  death !" 

She  pointed  to  the  boxes,  unable  to  speak. 

"  Dynamite  bombs !  cartridges !  powder  and  ball !" 
he  declared,  as  he  casually  examined  the  nearest.  "  It 
is  a  real  arsenal !" 

"  Come,  Jean !  Let  us  go !"  said  the  girl,  seizing 
him.  "  It  is  dangerous !  Your  candle !  think ! 
Come!" 

She  dragged  him  towards  the  open  door.  "  Ah  !  to 
think  I  beat  upon  the  wall  with  that — that " 

She  shivered  like  a  leaf. 

"  You  are  right,"  said  he.  "  The  candle  is  danger- 
ous. I  will  get  my  bicycle-lamp  and  we  will  investi- 
gate this  mystery." 

"  It  is  no  longer  a  mystery,"  she  replied, — "  not  to 
me.  It  is  the  hand  of  the  Duke." 

"  It  is  very  singular,"  he  muttered.    "  Very  curious."' 

"  It  is  a  fairy  romance,"  said  she,  as  they  passed  back 
through  the  narrow  opening  to  Jean's  appartement. 

"  There  is  no  fairy  story  about  that  dynamite, — that, 
at  least,  is  both  practical  and  modern." 

"  Oh !  I  mean  this  secret  passage  and  all  that " 

"  Yes ;  but  don't  you  know,  mon  enfant,  that  I  first 
thought  it  led  to — to  your " 

"  For  shame !  Monsieur  Jean !" 

21 


322  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  he,  shaking  his  head  smilingly. 
"  Monsieur  de  Beauchamp  was  a  very  handsome  man." 

"  Yes,  besides  being  an  ardent  servant  of  the  Due 
d'Orleans  and  an  artist  collector  of  pictures  and  bric- 
a-brac " 

"  Especially  '  bric-a-brac,'  "  said  Jean,  with  sarcasm. 

"  Anyhow,  mon  ami,  you  now  know ' 

"That  I  was  unjust  to  you,  yes;  pardon  me! 
You  could  know  very  little  of  Beauchamp,  since  he 
was  able  to  collect  all  of  this  bric-a-brac  under  your 
nose." 

Mile.  Fouchette  reddened,  thinking,  nervously,  of 
what  Inspector  Loup  would  say  on  that  head.  Jean 
saw  this  color  and  changed  the  conversation. 

"  Come,  now,  let  us  go  and  explore  Monsieur  de 
Beauchamp's  articles  of  vertu." 

With  the  bicycle  bull's-eye  light  in  hand  he  led  the 
way  back  through  the  secret  passage,  followed  closely 
by  the  young  girl. 

"  Monsieur  de  Beauchamp  wasn't  the  mighty  Caesar 
in  one  thing,"  said  Jean,  as  he  squeezed  through  the 
narrow  opening  in  the  wall. 

"How  is  that?" 

"  He  had  only  lean  men  about  him, — true  conspira- 
tors." 

"  Yes, — it  was  necessary." 

They  found  the  dark  room  where  all  of  the  muni- 
tions of  war  and  compound  assassination  were  stored. 
Entering,  they  inadvertently  closed  the  door  behind 
them. 

"  Dame !"  cried  Mile.  Fouchette.  "  The  key,  mon- 
sieur !  the  key !" 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  323 

"Quediable!" 

"  How  provoking !" 

"  But  we  have  the  dynamite " 

"Ah,  ga!" 

But  somehow  Mile.  Fouchette  was  not  as  badly 
frightened  at  the  situation  as  one  might  have  the  right' 
to  expect.  She  even  laughed  gayly  at  their  mutual  im- 
prisonment. 

"  Dynamite !"  muttered  Jean, — a  throne  founded 
upon  dynamite  would  crumble  quickly " 

"  Yes,  and  by  dynamite,"  said  she. 

"  Monsieur  de  Beauchamp  was " 

"  Is  a  royalist  leader " 

"  An  assassin !" 

"  A  tool  of  the  Due  d'Orleans." 

"  The  Duke  would  never  stoop  to  wholesale  murder ! 
Never!" 

"  It  is  the  way  of  kings,  n'est-ce  pas  ?  to  shelter 
themselves  from  responsibility  behind  their  tools?" 

"  Stop !  there  must  be  guns  for  this  amunition.  It 
must  be " 

Before  the  idea  had  fairly  germinated  in  his  brain 
Jean  discovered  a  door  that  in  the  candle-light  had 
easily  escaped  their  observation.  It  was  at  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  room  from  which  they  had  entered.  It 
was  a  narrow  door  and  the  key  was  in  the  lock. 

"  Another  way  out,"  suggested  the  girl. 

"  Surely,  petite,  since  that  closet  entrance  was  never 
meant  for  a  porte-cochere." 

The  door  opened  upon  a  narrow  and  dark  passage 
paved  with  worn  tiles.  At  the  end  of  this  passage  an- 
other door  barred  the  way.  An  examination  showed 


324  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

at  once  that  this  last  had  not  been  used  for  a  long  time. 
To  the  left,  however,  a  mere  slit  in  the  stone  was  seen 
to  involve  a  steep  stair  of  very  much  worn  steps.  Op- 
posite the  entrance  to  this  stairway  was  a  shallow  niche 
in  the  wall,  in  which  were  the  remains  of  burned  can- 
dles. 

"  Cat  stairs,"  said  Mile.  Fouchette. 

"  And  the  cats  have  used  it  a  good  deal  of  late,  I 
should  judge,"  he  observed,  carefully  examining  the 
entrance  in  the  glare  of  the  lamp. 

"  Leads  to  the  roof,  probably,"  she  muttered. 

"  Probably.    Let  us  mount." 

"  Oh,  yes,  let  us  follow  the  trail." 

The  instinct  of  the  woman  and  the  spy  was  now 
strong  within  her. 

The  "  cat  stairs"  were  closed  at  the  top  by  a  heavy 
oaken  trap  securely  fastened  within  by  two  iron  hooks. 

"  It  is  astonishing !"  he  said. 

"What?" 

"  These  fastenings,  keys,  bolts,  bars,  are  all  on  this 
side." 

"  Which  shows  merely  that  they  are  to  be  used  only 
from  this  direction,  does  it  not  ?" 

"Yes,  that  is  plain;  but  we  are  now  in  another 
building,  evidently, — a  building  that  must  open  on 
some  other  street  than  the  Rue  St.  Jacques." 

In  the  mean  time  Jean  had  finally  unfastened  and 
forced  the  trap.  In  another  moment  he  had  drawn 
her  through  the  opening  and  they  stood  under  a  cloud- 
less sky. 

"  Ah !"  she  murmured. 

"  We  are  free,  at  least,  mon  enfant." 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  325 

She  was  not  thinking  of  that.  The  silence,  the 
glorious  vault  of  stars,  the 

"S-sh!" 

"  It's  the  bell  of  Sainte  Genevieve,"  he  whispered, 
crossing  himself  involuntarily. 

"  Cover  the  light,  Monsieur  Jean.  These  roofs  have 
scores  of  eyes " 

"  And  a  couple  of  prowlers  might  be  the  target  for 
a  score  of  bullets,  eh  ?  True  enough !" 

"  Midnight !" 

She  had  been  counting  the  strokes  of  the  clock,  the 
sound  of  which  came,  muffled  and  sullen,  from  the  old 
square  belfry  beyond  the  Pantheon. 

The  roofs  of  this  old  quarter  presented  a  curious 
conglomeration  of  the  architectural  monstrosities  of 
seven  centuries.  It  was  a  fantastic  tumult  of  irregular 
shapes  that  only  took  the  semblance  of  human  design 
upon  being  considered  in  detail.  As  a  whole  they 
seemed  the  result  of  a  great  upheaval  of  nature — the 
work  of  some  powerful  demon — rather  than  that  of 
human  architectural  conception.  These  confused  and 
frightful  shapes  stretched  from  street  to  street, — stiff 
steeps  of  tile  and  moss-covered  slate,  massive  chimneys 
and  blackened  chimney-pots,  great  dormer-windows 
and  rows  of  mere  slits  and  holes  of  glass  betraying  the 
existence  of  humanity  within,  walls  and  copings  of 
rusty  stone  running  this  way  and  that  and  stopping 
abruptly,  mysterious  squares  of  even  blackness  repre- 
senting courts  and  breathing-spaces, — up  hill  and  down 
dale,  under  the  canopy  of  stars,  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach ! 

And  here,  close  at  hand,  and  towering  aloft  in  the 


326  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

entrancing  grandeur  of  celestial  beauty,  rose  the  dome 
of  the  Pantheon, — so  close,  indeed,  and  so  grandly 
great  and  beautiful  in  contrast  with  all  the  rest,  that  it 
seemed  the  stupendous  creation  of  the  angels. 

"  You  are  cold,  petite  ?"  he  whispered. 

She  had  shivered  and  drawn  a  little  closer  to  him. 

"  No,"  replied  the  girl,  glancing  around  her,  "  but 
it  is  frightful." 

"What?" 

"  Oh,  these  sombre  roofs." 

"  Bah !  petite,"  he  responded  lightly,  n  ghosts  don't 
promenade  the  roofs  of  Paris." 

"  They'd  break  their  ghostly  necks  if  they  did." 

"  Come !  and  let  us  be  careful  not  to  break  ours. 
Aliens !" 

They  stole  softly  along  the  adjoining  wall  that  ended 
at  a  court.  There  was  clearly  no  thoroughfare  in  this 
direction.  Coming  back  on  the  trail  he  examined  the 
stone  attentively,  she  meanwhile  shading  the  light  with 
the  folds  of  her  dress.  It  was  comparatively  easy  to 
note  the  recent  wear  of  feet  in  the  time-accumulation 
of  rust  and  dirt  and  dry  moss  of  these  old  stones.  In 
a  few  moments  he  discovered  that  the  tracks  turned 
off  between  two  high-pitched  roofs  towards  the  Pan- 
theon. As  from  one  of  these  slopes  grinned  a  double 
row  of  dormer-windows,  it  seemed  incredible  that 
any  considerable  number  of  prowlers  might  long  es- 
cape observation. 

"  But  they  may  be  vacant,"  said  the  girl,  when  Jean 
had  suggested  the  contingency. 

"  That  is  quite  true." 

So  they  stealthily  crept  rather  than  walked  on,  the 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  327 

end  of  the  gutter  abutting  on  another  court.  The  de- 
pression was  marked  here  by  virgin  moss. 

"  It  is  very  extraordinary,"  growled  Jean,  entirely 
at  a  loss  to  account  for  the  abrupt  close  of  the  trail. 
There  was  no  way  out  of  this  trough  save  by  climbing 
over  one  of  these  steep  roofs,  except 

"  The  window,  perhaps,"  she  whispered. 

"True!" 

Rapidly  moving  the  lamp  along  the  bottom  of  the 
gutter,  Jean  stopped. 

"There  it  is!" 

She  pointed  to  the  window  above  them  with  sup- 
pressed excitement. 

There  were  almost  imperceptible  cleats  cleverly  laid 
across  the  corrugated  tiling;  for  the  roof  had  a  pitch 
of  fifty  degrees,  and  the  casement  was  half-way  up  the 
slope. 

"  It  must  be  so,"  he  said.    "  Wait !" 

With  the  lantern  concealed  beneath  his  coat  he 
scrambled  noiselessly  up  and  examined  the  window. 
It  was  not  fastened.  Whoever  had  passed  here  last 
had  come  this  way.  He  opened  it  a  little,  then  wider. 

"Come!    Quickly!" 

Even  as  he  called  to  her  Jean  threw  open  wide  the 
windows, — which  folded  from  within,  like  all  French 
windows — and  entered,  leaving  Mile.  Fouchette  to  fol- 
low at  will.  That  damsel's  catlike  nature  made  a  roof 
a  mere  playground,  and  she  was  almost  immediately 
behind  him. 

"MonDieu!    What  is  this?" 

They  had  descended  four  steps  to  the  floor,  and  now 
the  exclamation  burst  from  them  simultaneously. 


328  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

For  a  minute  they  stood,  half  breathless,  looking 
about  them. 

They  seemed  to  be  in  an  empty  room  embracing  the 
entire  unfinished  garret  of  a  house,  gable  to  gable. 
The  space  was  all  roof  and  floor, — that  is,  the  roof 
rose  abruptly  from  the  floor  on  two  sides  to  the  comb 
above. 

As  the  eye  became  accustomed  to  the  place,  it  first 
took  in  the  small  square  boxes,  some  of  which  had 
evidently  been  unpacked  or  prepared  for  that  process, 
the  litter  being  scattered  about  the  floor, — the  boxes 
similar  to  those  stored  in  the  dark  room  below.  There 
were  roughly  constructed  platforms  beneath  all  of  the 
windows,  with  steps  leading  up  to  the  same.  Beneath 
these  platforms  and  along  the  whole  of  one  side  of  the 
room  were  wooden  arm-racks  glistening  with  arms  of 
the  latest  model.  Belts,  cartridge-boxes,  bayonets, 
swords,  an  immense  assortment  of  military  parapher- 
nalia, lay  piled  on  the  floor  at  one  end  of  the  room. 

At  the  opposite  end  was  mounted  on  a  swivel  a  one- 
pound  Maxim  rapid-firer,  the  wall  in  front  of  it  being 
pierced  to  the  last  brick. 

A  few  blows,  and  lo!  the  muzzle  of  the  modern 
death-dealer ! 

Along  the  lower  edge  of  the  roof  towards  the  Pan- 
theon might  have  been  found  numerous  similar  places, 
requiring  only  a  thrust  to  become  loopholes  for  pros- 
trate riflemen. 

The  most  cursory  glance  from  the  windows  above 
showed  that  these  commanded  the  Place  du  Pantheon 
and  Rue  Soufflot, — the  scene  of  bloody  street  battles 
of  every  revolutionary  epoch. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  329 

Fifty  active  men  from  this  vantage  could  have  ren- 
dered either  street  or  barricade  untenable,  or  as  sup- 
port to  a  barricade  in  the  Place  du  Pantheon  have 
made  such  a  barricade  impregnable  to  exposed  troops. 

"  It  is  admirable !"  cried  Jean,  lost  in  contemplation 
of  the  strategic  importance  of  the  position. 

"  It  is  wonderful,  but " 

"  Artillery  ?  Yes,"  he  interrupted,  anticipating  her 
reasoning ;  "  but  artillery  could  not  be  elevated  to 
command  this  place  from  the  street,  and  as  for  Mont 
Valerien " 

"  The  Pantheon " 

"  Yes, — exactly, — they  would  never  risk  the  Pan- 
theon. Even  the  Prussians  spared  that." 

"  Oh,  Monsieur  Jean,  see !" 

She  had  discovered  a  white  silk  flag  embroidered 
with  the  lilies  of  France. 

"  The  wretches !  They  would  restore  the  hated  em- 
blem of  the  Louis !  This  is  too  much !"  he  exclaimed, 
in  wrath. 

"  It  is  the  way  of  the  king,  n'est-ce  pas  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"  But  the  Due  d'Orleans  should  know  that  the  peo- 
ple of  France  will  never  abandon  the  tricolor, — never !" 

"  The  people  of  France  are  fools !" 

"True!"  he  rejoined,  hotly,  "and  I  am  but  one  of 
them!" 

"  Ah,  Monsieur  Jean !  Now  you  are  uttering  the 
words  of  wisdom.  Recall  the  language  of  Monsieur 
de  Beauchamp, — that  it  is  necessary  to  make  use  of 
everybody  and  everything  going  the  way  of  the  king, 
— tending  to  re-establish  the  throne!" 


330  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  The  throne !  I  will  have  none  of  it.  I'm  a  repub- 
lican !" 

She  smiled.  "  And  as  a  republican,  what  is  your 
first  duty  now  ?" 

"  Why,  to  inform  the  proper  authorities  of  our  dis- 
covery." 

"Good!    Let  us  go!" 

"  Allons !"  he  responded,  briskly. 

"  But  how  will  we  get  out  ?" 

"  How  about  this  door  ?" 

He  had  brought  the  rays  of  the  lamp  to  bear  upon 
a  door  at  the  gable  opposite  the  Maxim  gun.  It  was 
bolted  and  heavily  barred,  but  these  fastenings  were 
easily  removed. 

As  anticipated,  this  door  led  to  a  passage  and  to 
stairs  which,  in  turn,  led  down  to  the  street.  They 
closed  the  door  with  as  little  noise  as  possible,  care- 
fully locking  it  arid  bringing  away  the  key. 

A  light  below  showed  that  the  lower  part  of  this 
house  was  inhabited,  probably  by  people  innocent  of 
the  terrible  drama  organized  above  their  heads.  But 
the  slightest  noise  might  arouse  these  people,  and  in 
such  a  case  the  Frenchman  is  apt  to  shoot  first  and 
make  inquiries  afterwards.  However,  once  in  the 
street,  they  could  go  around  to  their  own  rooms  with- 
out trouble.  It  was  worth  the  risk. 

The  stairs,  fortunately,  had  a  strip  of  carpeting,  so 
they  soon  found  themselves  safely  at  the  street  door. 
To  quietly  open  this  was  but  the  work  of  a  few  sec- 
onds, when 

They  stepped  into  the  arms  of  Inspector  Loup  and 
his  agents. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

"  PARDIEU  !"  exclaimed  Inspector  Loup,  who  never 
recognized  his  agents  officially  outside  of  the  Prefec- 
ture ;  "  it  is  La  Savatiere !" 

Mile.  Fouchette  trembled  a  little. 

"And  Monsieur  Ma-rot!  Why,  this  is  an  unex- 
pected pleasure,"  continued  the  police  official. 

"  Then  the  pleasure  is  all  on  one  side,"  promptly 
responded  Jean,  who  was  disgusted  beyond  measure. 

Inspector  Loup  regarded  the  pair  with  his  fishy  eyes 
half  closed.  For  once  in  his  life  he  was  nonplussed. 
Nay,  if  anything  could  be  said  to  be  surprising  to  In- 
spector Loup,  this  meeting  was  unexpected  and  sur- 
prising. But  he  was  too  clever  a  player  to  needlessly 
expose  the  weakness  of  his  hand. 

Mile.  Fouchette's  eyes  avoided  scrutiny.  She  had 
given  Jean  one  quick,  significant  glance  and  then 
looked  demurely  around,  as  if  the  matter  merely  bored 
her. 

Jean  understood  that  glance  and  was  dumb. 

Inspector  Loup's  waiting  tactics  did  not  work. 

"  So  my  birdies  must  coo  at  midnight  on  the  house- 
tops," he  finally  remarked. 

"  Well,  monsieur,"  retorted  the  young  man,  "  is  there 
any  law  against  that?" 

"  Where's  the  lantern?" 

"  Here,"  said  Jean,  turning  the  bull's-eye  on  the 
face  of  the  inspector. 

"Bicycle.  Is  your  wheel  above,  monsieur?"  This 
ironically. 

"  Not  exactly,  Monsieur  1'Inspecteur." 


332  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  Now,  Monsieur  Jean,"  put  in  Mile.  Fouchette,  "  if 
Monsieur  1'Inspecteur  has  no  further  questions  to 
ask " 

"  Not  so  fast,  mademoiselle,"  sharply  interrupted 
the  officer.  "  Just  wait  a  bit ;  for,  while  I  do  not  claim 
that  roof-walking  at  midnight  is  unpardonable  in  cats 
and  lovers,  it  is  especially  forbidden  to  enter  other 
people's  houses  when  they  are  asleep." 

Mile.  Fouchette's  nervousness  did  not  escape  the 
little  fishy  eyes.  While  it  was  already  evident  that 
Monsieur  1'Inspecteur  was  talking  at  random,  it  was 
morally  certain  that  he  would  smoke  them  out. 

"  And  two  persons  armed  with  a  dark-lantern, 
coming  out  of  a  house  not  their  own,  at  this  time  of 
night,"  continued  the  inspector,  "  are  under  legitimate 
suspicion  until  they  can  explain." 

Mile.  Fouchette  made  a  sign  to  Jean  that  he  was  to 
hold  his  tongue. 

"  Now,  none  of  that,  mademoiselle !"  cried  the  in- 
spector, angrily. 

He  rudely  separated  the  couple,  and,  taking  charge 
of  the  girl  himself,  turned  Jean  over  to  four  of  his 
agents  who  were  near  at  hand. 

"  We'll  put  you  where  you'll  have  time  to  reflect," 
he  said. 

Mile.  Fouchette  was  inspired.  She  saw  that  it  was 
not  a  souriciere.  If  the  inspector  knew  what  was 
above,  he  would  not  have  left  the  entrances  and  exits 
unguarded.  To  be  absolutely  sure  of  this,  she  waited 
until  they  had  passed  the  Rue  St.  Jacques. 

"  Now  is  my  opportunity  to  play  quits,"  she  said  to 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  333 

herself,  and  her  face  betrayed  the  intensity  of  her  pur- 
pose. 

"  Monsieur  1'Inspecteur !" 

"Well?" 

"  I  would  like  a  private  word  with  you,  please." 

"  What's  that  ?    Oh,  it's  of  no  use,"  he  replied. 

"  To  your  advantage,  monsieur." 

"And  yours,  eh?" 

"  Undoubtedly,"  she  frankly  said. 

They  walked  on  a  few  steps.  Then  the  inspector 
raised  his  hand  for  those  in  the  rear  to  stop. 

They  soon  stood  in  the  dark  entrance  of  a  wine- 
shop, the  inspector  of  the  secret  police  and  his  petite 
moucharde,  both  as  sharp  and  hard  as  flint. 

"  Now,  out  with  it,  you  little  vixen !"  he  commanded, 
assuming  his  brutal  side.  "  Let  us  have  no  trifling. 
You  know  me !" 

"  And  you  know  me,  monsieur !"  she  retorted,  with 
the  first  show  of  anger  in  her  voice. 

"Speak!" 

"  I  said  I  had  important  information,"  she  began, 
calmly.  But  it  was  with  an  effort,  for  he  had  shaken 
her  roughly. 

"  Yes !"  he  put  in ;  "  and  see  that  you  make  good, 
mon  enfant!" 

He  was  suspicious  that  this  was  some  clever  ruse 
to  escape  her  present  dilemma.  Monsieur  ITnspecteur 
certainly  knew  Mile.  Fouchette. 

"  Information  that  you  do  not  seem  to  want,  mon- 
sieur  " 

"Will  you  speak?" 


334  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  I  have  the  right  to  reveal  it  only  to  the  Ministry," 
she  coldly  replied. 

"  Is — is  it  so  important  as  that  ?"  he  asked.  But  his 
tone  had  changed.  She  had  made  a  move  as  if  the  in- 
terview were  over. 

"  So  important  that  for  you  to  be  the  master  of  it 
will  make  you  master  of  the  Ministry  and — 

"  Bah !"  he  ejaculated,  contemptuously.  He  was 
master  of  them  already. 

"  And  the  mere  publicity  of  it  would  send  your  name 
throughout  the  civilized  world  in  a  day!" 

"  Speak  up,  then ;   don't  be  afraid — 

"  It  is  such  that,  no  matter  what  you  may  do  in  the 
future,  nothing  would  give  you  greater  reputation." 

"  But,  ma  fillette," — it  was  the  utmost  expression  of 
his  official  confidence, — "  and  for  you,  more  money, 
eh?" 

"  No,  no !    It  is  not  money !" 

She  spoke  up  sharply  now. 

"  Good !"  said  he,  "  for  you  won't  get  it." 

"  It  is  not  a  question  of  money,  monsieur.    If  I— 

"  There  is  no  '  if  about  it !"  he  exclaimed,  irritated 
at  her  bargaining  manner  and  again  flying  into  a  pas- 
sion. "  You'll  furnish  the  information  you're  paid  to 
furnish,  and  without  any  '  question'  or  '  if,'  or  I'll  put 
you  behind  the  bars.  Yes,  sacre  bleu!  on  a  diet  of 
bread  and  water !" 

He  was  angry  that  she  had  the  whip  hand  and  that 
she  was  driving  him. 

"  Certainly,  monsieur," — and  her  tone  was  freezingly 
polite, — "  but  then  I  will  furnish  it  to  the  Ministry,  as 
I'm  specially  instructed  in  such  cases  to  do." 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  335 

"  Then  why  do  you  come  to  me  with  it  ?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"  Monsieur  1'Inspecteur,  I  would  do  you  a  favor  if 
you  would  let  me " 

"  For  a  substantial  favor  in  return !" 

"  Precisely." 

"Ugh!  of  course!" 

"  Of  course,  monsieur, — partly.  Partly  because  you 
have  been  kind  to  me,  generally,  and  I  would  now  re- 
ciprocate that  kindness." 

"  So !  Well,  mademoiselle,  now  we  understand  each 
other,  how  much?" 

"Monsieur?" 

"  I  say  how  much  money  do  you  want  ?" 

"  But,  monsieur — no,  we  do  not  understand  each 
other.  I  said  it  is  not  a  question  of  money.  If  I 
wanted  money  I  could  get  it  at  the  Ministry, — yes, 
thousands  of  francs !" 

"  Perhaps  you  overrate  your  find,  mademoiselle,"  he 
suggested,  but  with  unconcealed  interest. 

"  Impossible !"  she  exclaimed. 

"  It  ought  to  be  very  important  indeed,"  she  con- 
tinued, "  equally  important  to  you  in  its  suppression, 
monsieur." 

"Ah!" 

The  fishy  eyes  were  very  active. 

"  And  who  besides  you  possesses  this  secret  ?" 

"  Monsieur  Marot." 

"So!    He  alone?" 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

"  In  a  word,  mademoiselle,  then,  what  is  it  that  you 
want?" 


336  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"Liberty!" 

The  inspector  started  back,  confused. 

"  What's  that?"  he  growled,  warily. 

"  I  said  '  liberty.'  I  mean  freedom  from  this  ser- 
vice !  I'm  tired,  monsieur !  I  would  be  free !  I  would 
live!" 

The  veteran  looked  at  her  first  with  incredulity,  then 
astonishment,  then  pity.  He  began  to  think  the  girl 
was  really  crazy,  and  that  her  story  was  probably  all 
a  myth.  He  suddenly  turned  the  lantern  from  under 
his  cloak  upon  her  upturned  face,  and  he  saw  that 
which  thrilled  him,  but  which  he  could  not  under- 
stand. 

It  was  the  first  time  within  Inspector  Loup's  experi- 
ence that  he  had  found  any  one  wanting  to  quit — actu- 
ally refusing  good  money  to  quit — the  Secret  System, 
having  once  enjoyed  its  delightful  atmosphere. 

"  Monsieur  1'Inspecteur  ?" 

But  he  was  so  much  involved  in  his  mental  struggle 
with  this  new  phase  of  detective  life  that  he  did  not 
answer.  He  had  figured  it  out. 

"  So !  I  think  I  understand  now.  But  why  quit  ? 
You  have  struck  something  better ;  but,  surely,  made- 
moiselle, one  can  be  in  love  and  yet  do  one's  duty  to 
the  State." 

"Monsieur!" 

"  Oh,  well ;  you  can  resign,  can't  you  ?  Nobody 
hinders  you."  And  be  a  fool !  was  in  Monsieur  1'In- 
specteur's  tone. 

"  Yes ;  but  that  is  not  all,  monsieur.  I  want  it  with 
your  free  consent  and  written  quittance, — and  more, 
your  word  of  honor  that  I  will  never  be  molested  by 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  337 

you  or  your  agents, — that  I  will  be  as  if  I  had  never 
been !" 

"  And  if  I  agree  to  all  this " 

"  I  shall  prove  my  good  faith." 

"When?" 

"At  once!" 

"  Good !  Then  we  do  understand  each  other,"  he 
said,  taking  her  hand  for  the  first  time  in  his  life. 

"  I  trust  you,  monsieur." 

"  You  have  my  word.  But  you  will  permit  me  to 
give  you  a  last  word  of  fatherly  advice  before  I  cease 
to  know  you.  Keep  that  gay  young  lover  of  yours 
out  of  mischief;  he  will  never  again  get  off  as  easily 
as  he  did  the  other  day." 

"  Thanks,  Monsieur  ITnspecteur !"  said  Mile.  Fou- 
chette,  very  glad  indeed  now  that  the  lantern  was  not 
turned  on  her. 

"  Aliens !"  he  cried,  looking  about  him.  "  And  my 
men,  mademoiselle?" 

"  I  would  put  two  at  the  door  where  you  met  us — 
out  of  sight — and  leave  two  in  the  Rue  St.  Jacques 
where  we  shall  enter, — until  you  see  for  yourself, — the 
coast  is  clear." 

"  Good !"  said  he,  and  he  gave  the  necessary  orders. 

Inspector  Loup  issued  from  the  Rue  Souflflot  en- 
trance an  hour  later  with  a  look  of  keen  satisfaction. 

Between  the  royalists  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  re- 
publicans on  the  other,  there  were  gigantic  possibili- 
ties for  an  official  of  Inspector  Loup's  elasticity  of  con- 
science. 

He  had  first  of  all  enjoined  strict  silence  on  the  part 
of  Mile.  Fouchette  and  Jean  Marot. 

22 


338  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  For  the  public  safety,"  he  said. 

During  his  inspection  of  the  premises  he  had  found 
opportunity  to  secretly  transfer  an  envelope  to  the 
hand  of  Mile.  Fouchette.  For  the  chief  of  the  Secret 
System  was  too  clever  not  to  see  the  shoe  that  pinched 
Mile.  Fouchette's  toes,  and,  while  despising  her  weak- 
ness, was  loyal  to  his  obligation. 

As  soon  as  Mile.  Fouchette  had  bidden  Jean  good- 
night and  found  herself  in  her  own  room,  she  took 
this  envelope  from  her  pocket  and  drew  near  the 
lamp. 

It  was  marked  "  To  be  opened  to-morrow." 

She  felt  it  nervously.  It  crackled.  She  squeezed 
it  between  her  thumb  and  forefinger.  She  held  it  be- 
tween her  eyes  and  the  light.  In  vain  the  effort  to 
pierce  its  secrets. 

The  old  tower  clock  behind  the  Pantheon  mumbled 
two. 

"  Dame !"  she  said,  "  it  is  to-morrow !" 

And  she  hastily  ripped  the  missive  open. 

Something  bluish  white  fluttered  to  the  floor.  She 
picked  it  up. 

It  was  a  new,  crisp  note  of  five  hundred  francs ! 

She  trembled  so  that  she  sank  into  the  nearest  chair, 
crushing  the  paper  in  her  hand.  Her  little  head  was 
so  dizzy — really — she  could  scarcely  bring  it  to  bear 
upon  anything. 

Except  one  thing, — that  this  unexpected  wealth 
stood  between  her  and  what  an  honest  young  woman 
dreads  most  in  this  world ! 

The  tears  slowly  trickled  down  the  pale  cheeks, — 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  339 

tears  for  which  it  is  to  be  feared  only  the  angels  in 
heaven  gave  Mile.  Fouchette  due  credit. 

Suddenly  she  started  up  in  alarm.  But  it  was  only 
some  belated  lodger,  staggering  on  the  stairs.  She 
examined  the  lock  on  her  door  and  resolved  to  get  a 
new  one.  Then  she  looked  behind  the  curtains  of  her 
bed. 

The  fear  which  accompanies  possession  was  new  to 
her. 

Having  satisfied  herself  of  its  safety,  she  cautiously 
spread  out  the  bank-note  on  the  table,  smoothed  out 
the  wrinkles,  read  everything  printed  on  it,  and  kissed 
it  again  and  again. 

One  of  the  not  least  poignant  regrets  in  her  mind 
was  that  she  could  tell  no  one  of  her  good  fortune. 
Not  that  Mile.  Fouchette  was  bavarde,  but  happiness 
unshared  is  only  half  happiness. 

She  went  to  the  thin  place  in  the  wall  and  listened. 
Jean  was  snoring. 

She  could  look  him  in  the  face  now. 

It  was  a  lot  of  money  to  have  at  one  time, — with 
what  she  had  already  more  than  she  had  ever  possessed 
at  once  in  her  life. 

Freedom  and  fortune ! 

She  picked  up  the  envelope  which  had  been  hastily 
discarded  for  the  fortune  it  had  contained. 

Hold!  here  was  something  more!  She  saw  that 
it  was  her  quittance, — her  freedom !  Her  face,  already 
happy  and  smiling,  became  joyous. 

It  was  merely  a  lead-pencil  scrawl  on  a  leaf  from 
Inspector  Loup's  note-book  saying  that 


340  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

As  she  read  it  her  head  swam. 

"  Oh !  mon  Dieu !  It  is  impossible !  Not  Fou- 
chette?  I  am  not — and  Mile.  Remy  is  my  sister! 
Ah!  Mere  de  Dieu!  And  Jean — oh!  grand  Dieu!" 

She  choked  with  her  emotions. 

"  I  shall  die!  What  shall  I  do?  What  shall  I  do? 
And  Lerouge,  my  half-brother!  I  shall  surely  die!" 

With  the  paper  crumpled  in  her  folded  hands  she 
sank  to  her  knees  beside  the  big  chair  and  bowed  her 
head.  Her  heart  was  full  to  bursting,  but  in  her 
deep  perplexity  she  could  only  murmur,  "  What  shall 
I  do?  what  shall  I  do?" 

******** 

Jean  Marot  started  from  his  heavy  sleep  much  later 
than  usual  to  hear  the  clatter  of  dishes  in  the  next 
room.  Going  and  coming  rose  a  rather  metallic  voice 
humming  an  old-time  chanson  of  the  Quartier.  He 
had  never  heard  Mile.  Fouchette  sing  before;  yet 
it  was  certainly  Mile.  Fouchette : 

"  II  est  une  rue  a  Paris, 
Ou  jamais  ne  passe  personne," — 

and  the  rest  came  feebly  and  shrilly  from  the  depths 
of  his  kitchen, — 

"  La  nuit  tous  les  chats  qui  sont  gris 
Y  tiennent  leur  cour  polissonne." 

"  Oh !  oui  da !"  he  cried  from  his  bed.  "  Yes !  and 
the  cats  sometimes  get  arrested,  too,  hein?" 

The  door  leading  to  his  salon  was  opened  tentatively 
and  a  small  blonde  head  and  a  laughing  face  appeared. 

"  Not  up  yet  ?    For  shame,  monsieur !" 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  341 

"What  time  is  it?" 

"  Ten  o'clock,  lazybones." 

"  Ten " 

"Yes.    Aren't  you  hungry?" 

"  Hungry  as  a  wolf !"  he  cried,  with  a  sweep  of  his 
curtains. 

"  Come,  then !"  And  the  blonde  head  disappeared. 

"  This  is  living,"  said  the  young  man  to  himself 
as  he  was  dressing, — he  had  never  enjoyed  such  com- 
fort away  from  home, — "  the  little  one  is  a  happy  com- 
bination of  housekeeper  and  cook  as  well  as  guide, 
philosopher,  and  friend.  Seems  to  like  it,  too." 

He  noted  that  the  little  breakfast-table  was  arranged 
with  neat  coquetry  and  set  off  with  a  bunch  of  red 
roses  that  filled  the  air  with  their  exquisite  fragrance. 
Next  he  saw  that  Mile.  Fouchette  herself  seemed  un- 
commonly charming.  She  not  only  had  her  hair  done 
up,  but  her  best  dress  on  instead  of  the  customary  di- 
lapidated morning  wrapper. 

His  quick,  artistic  eye  took  in  all  of  these  details 
at  a  glance,  falling  finally  upon  the  three  marguerites 
at  her  throat. 

"  My  faith !  you  are  quite — but,  say,  little  one, 
what's  up?" 

"  I'm  up,"  she  laughingly  answered,  "  and  I've  been 
up  these  two  hours,  Monsieur  Lazybones." 

"  But " 

"  Yes,  and  I've  been  down  in  Rue  Royer-Collard 
and  paid  our  milk  bill, — deux  francs  cinquante,  and 
gave  that  epiciere  a  piece  of  my  mind  for  giving  me 
omelette  eggs  for  eggs  a  la  coque ;  for,  while  the  eggs 
were  not  bad,  one  wants  what  one  pays  for,  and  I'm 


342  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

going  to  have  it,  so  she  gave  me  an  extra  egg  this 
time.  How  do  you  like  these?" 

Without  waiting  for  him  to  answer  she  added, 
"  They  are  vingt-cinq  centimes  for  two,  six  at  soixante- 
quinze  centimes,  and  one  extra,  which  is  trois  francs 
vingt-cinq;  and  I  got  another  pound  of  that  coffee 
in  Boulevard  St.  Michel ;  but  it  is  dreadful  dear,  mon 
ami, — only  you  will  have  good  coffee,  n'est-ce  pas? 
But  three-forty  a  pound!  Which  makes  six  francs 
soixante-cinq." 

It  was  her  way  to  thus  account  for  all  expenditures 
for  their  joint  household.  He  paid  about  as  much 
attention  as  usual, — which  was  none  at  all, — his  mind 
still  dwelling  on  the  cheerfulness  and  genuine  comfort 
of  the  place. 

"  And  the  flowers,  petite " 

"  Of  course,"  she  hastily  interrupted,  "  I  pay  for  the 
flowers." 

"  No !  no !"  he  explained.  "  I  don't  mean  that ! 
Is  it  your  birthday,  or -" 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  thoughtfully,  "  that  is  it,  Monsieur 
Jean.  I  was  born  this  morning!" 

He  laughed,  but  saw  from  the  sparkle  of  the  blue 
eyes  that  he  had  not  caught  her  real  meaning. 

"  From  the  marguerites " 

"  Ah,  ga !  I  made  the  marchande  des  fleurs  give  me 
those.  Aren't  they  sweet  ?  How  I  love  the  flowers !" 

"  But  I  never  saw  such  a  remarkable  effect,  some- 
how. They  are  only  flowers,  and " 

"  '  Only  flowers' !    Say,  now !" 

"  Still,  it  is  curious,"  he  added,  resuming  his  coffee 
and  rolls,  as  if  the  subject  were  not  worth  an  argu- 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  343 

ment  or  was  too  intangible  to  grasp.  He  could  not 
account  for  the  change  in  Mile.  Fouchette. 

And  if  Jean  Marot  had  been  very  much  more  of  a 
philosopher  than  he  was  he  would  not  have  been  able 
to  understand  the  divine  process  by  which  human  hap- 
piness softens  and  beautifies  the  human  countenance. 

"  Mon  ami,"  said  the  girl,  seeking  to  hide  the  pleas- 
ure his  admiration  gave  her,  "  do  you,  then,  forget 
what  we  have  to  do  to-day  ?" 

"  Lerouge  ?    Yes, — that's  so, — at  once !" 

Immediately  after  breakfast  Jean  sat  down  and 
wrote  a  friendly,  frank  letter,  making  a  complete  and 
manly  apology  for  his  anger  and  expressing  the  live- 
liest sympathy  for  his  old-time  friend. 

"  Tell  him,  Monsieur  Jean,  that  you  have  changed 
your  political  opinions  and " 

"Oh!" 

"  At  least  that  you'll  have  nothing  more  to  do  with 
these  conspirators." 

"  But,  Fouchette— 

"  Last  night's  discoveries  ought  to  satisfy  any  rea- 
sonable being." 

"  True  enough,  petite." 

"  Then  why  not  say  so  to " 

"  Not  yet, — I  prefer  acts  rather  than  words, — but  in 
good  time " 

It  is  more  difficult  for  a  man  to  bring  himself  to 
the  acknowledgment  of  political  errors  than  to  confess 
to  infractions  of  the  moral  law. 

In  the  mean  time  Mile.  Fouchette  had  cleared  away 
and  washed  the  breakfast  things  and  stood  ready  to 
deliver  the  missive  of  peace. 


344  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  It  is  very  singular,"  he  repeated  to  himself  after 
she  had  departed  upon  this  errand,  "  very  singular, 
indeed,  that  this  girl — really,  I  don't  know  just  what 
to  think  of  her." 

So  he  ceased  to  think  of  her  at  all,  which  was,  per- 
haps, after  all,  the  easiest  way  out  of  the  mental  di- 
lemma. 

The  fact  was  that  Mile.  Fouchette  was  fast  becoming 
necessary  to  him. 

With  a  light  heart  and  eager  step  she  tripped  down 
the  Boulevard  St.  Michel  towards  the  ancient  Isle  de 
la  Cite.  On  the  bridge  she  saw  the  dark  shadow  of 
the  Prefecture  loom  up  ahead  of  her,  and  her  face, 
already  beaming  with  pleasure,  lighted  with  a  fresher 
glow  as  she  thought  of  her  moral  freedom. 

The  bridge  was  crowded  as  usual  with  vehicles 
and  foot-passers,  but  this  did  not  prevent  a  woman 
on  the  opposite  side  from  catching  a  recognizing 
glance  of  Mile.  Fouchette. 

The  sight  of  the  latter  seemed  to  thrill  the  looker 
like  an  electric  shock.  She  stopped  short, — so  suddenly 
that  those  who  immediately  followed  her  had  a  narrow 
escape  from  collision.  Her  face  was  heavily  veiled,  and 
beneath  that  veil  was  but  one  eye,  yet  in  the  same  swift 
glance  with  which  she  comprehended  the  figure  she 
took  in  the  elastic  step  and  the  happy  face  of  Mile. 
Fouchette. 

"  Mort  au  diable !"  she  muttered  in  her  masculine 
voice, — a  voice  which  startled  those  who  dodged  the 
physical  shock, — and  added  to  herself,  "  It  must  be 
love !"  She  saw  the  flowers  at  the  girl's  throat.  "  She 
loves!" 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  345 

It  was  at  the  same  instant  Mile  Fouchette  had  raised 
her  eyes  to  the  Prefecture  that  stretched  along  the 
quai  to  the  Parvis  de  la  Notre  Dame. 

Ah,  ga ! 

And  after  years  of  servitude, — from  childhood, — 
some  of  it  a  servitude  of  the  most  despicable  nature, 
— she  had  at  last  struck  off  the  shackles! 

No, — she  had  merely  changed  masters;  she  had 
exchanged  a  master  whom  she  feared  and  hated  for 
one  she  loved — adored! 

Mile.  Fouchette,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  walked 
willingly  and  boldly  past  the  very  front  door  of  the 
Prefecture, — "  like  any  other  lady,"  she  would  have 
said. 

An  agent  of  the  Prefecture,  who  knew  her  from 
having  worked  with  her,  happened  to  see  this  from 
the  court  and  hastily  stepped  out.  He  observed  her 
walk,  critically,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Something  is  in  the  wind,"  said  he. 

But  as  the  secret  agents  of  the  government  are  never 
allowed  to  enter  the  Prefecture,  he  watched  for  some 
sign  to  follow.  She  gave  none. 

Nevertheless,  he  slowly  sauntered  in  the  same  direc- 
tion, not  daring  to  accost  her  and  yet  watchful  of 
some  recognition  of  his  presence. 

It  was  the  same  polite  young  man  who  had  surren- 
dered his  place  in  the  dance  to  Jean  on  the  night  of 
Mardi  Gras.  He  had  not  gone  twenty  yards  before  a 
robust  young  woman  heavily  veiled  brushed  past  him 
with  an  oath. 

"  Pardieu !"  he  said  to  himself,  "  but  this  seems  to 


346  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

be  a  feminine  chase."  And  he  quickened  his  steps  as 
if  to  take  part  in  the  hunt. 

Reaching  the  corner,  Mile.  Fouchette  doubled  around 
the  Prefecture  and  made  straight  for  the  Hotel  Dieu. 

Rapidly  gaining  on  her  in  the  rear  came  the  veiled 
woman,  evidently  growing  more  and  more  agitated. 

And  immediately  behind  and  still  more  swiftly  came 
the  sleuth  from  the  Prefecture.  To  be  sure,  there  were 
always  plenty  of  people  crossing  the  broad  plaza  of 
Notre  Dame  from  various  directions  and  three  going 
the  same  way  would  not  have  attracted  attention. 

Mile.  Fouchette  drew  near  the  steps  of  the  big  hos- 
pital, taking  a  letter  from  her  bosom. 

"  That  letter !  Sacre  !  I  must  have  that  letter !" 
murmured  the  veiled  woman,  aloud. 

"  But  you  won't  get  it,"  thought  the  agent,  gliding 
closer  after  her. 

Mile.  Fouchette  kissed  the  superscription  as  she  ran 
up  the  steps. 

"  Death !"  growled  the  veiled  woman,  half  frantic 
at  what  she  considered  proof  of  the  justice  of  her 
jealous  suspicions  as  strong  as  holy  writ. 

The  man  behind  her  was  puzzled ;  astonished  most 
at  Mile.  Fouchette's  osculatory  performance;  but  he 
promptly  seized  the  pursuer  by  the  arm. 

"  Not  so  fast,  mademoiselle !" 

"  Go !     I  must  have  that  letter !" 

She  turned  upon  the  man  like  an  enraged  tigress, 
the  one  big  black  eye  ablaze  with  wrath. 

"  Ah !  It  is  you,  eh  ?  And  right  under  the  nose  of 
the  Prefecture!" 

"  Au  diable !"  she  half  screamed,  half  roared,  strug- 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  347 

gling  to  free  herself  from  his  iron  grip.  "  It  is  none 
of  your  business." 

"  Your  best  friend,  too !" 

"  Devil !"  she  shouted,  striking  at  him  furiously. 

"  Oh,  no;  not  quite, — only  an  agent  from  the  Pre- 
fecture, my  bird." 

"  Oho !  And  she's  a  dirty  spy  like  you !  I  know  it ! 
And  I'll  kill  her!  D'you  hear  that?  A  mort!  The 
miserable  moucharde !" 

"  Not  to-day,  my  precious !"  said  the  man,  cleverly 
changing  his  grip  for  one  of  real  steel.  "  Not  to-day. 
Here  is  where  you  go  with  me,  deary.  Come !" 

"  I  tell  you  I'll  kill  her !" 

"  We'll  see  about  that  later ;  in  the  mean  time  you 
can  have  a  chance  to  sweat  some  of  that  absinthe  out  of 
you  in  St.  Lazare.  And  look  sharp,  now !  If  you 
don't  come  along  quietly  I'll  have  you  dragged  through 
the  streets  !  Understand  ?" 

Mile.  Fouchette  had,  happily  unconscious  of  this  ex- 
citing scene,  passed  out  of  sight,  inquired  as  to  the  con- 
dition of  Lerouge,  sent  in  the  letter  by  a  trusty  nurse, 
and  was  returning  across  the  Parvis  de  la  Notre  Dame 
at  the  same  moment  that  Madeleine,  alternately  weep- 
ing and  cursing,  was  thrown  into  her  cell  at  the  Pre- 
fecture. 


CHAPTER   XX 

A  FORTNIGHT  had  passed  since  the  note  to  Lerouge, 
and  to  all  appearances  the  latter  had  ignored  it  and  its 
author. 

Mile.  Fouchette  was  ordinarily  an  infallible  remedy 
for  blue-devils ;  but  to  Jean  Marot  Mile.  Fouchette  was 
fast  becoming  a  mere  matter  of  course.  A  patient  little 
beast  of  burden,  she  was  none  the  less  useful  to  a  young 
man  floundering  around  in  the  mire  of  politics,  love, 
and  other  dire  uncertainties. 

As  otherwise  very  good  husbands  are  wont  to  un- 
load their  irritability  on  their  wives,  so  Jean  was  in- 
clined to  favor  Mile.  Fouchette.  And  as  doting  wives 
who  voluntarily  constitute  themselves  drudges  soon 
become  fixed  in  that  lowly  position,  so  Mile.  Fouchette 
naturally  became  the  servant  of  the  somewhat  master- 
ful Jean  Marot. 

She  cheerfully  accepted  these  exactions  of  his  vari- 
able temper  along  with  the  responsibility  for  the  eco- 
nomical administration  of  his  domestic  affairs. 

But  even  the  brightest  and  most  willing  of  servants 
cannot  always  anticipate  what  is  in  the  master's  mind ; 
so  Jean  had  come  to  giving  orders  to  Mile.  Fouchette. 
He  had  not  yet  beaten  her,  but  the  careless  observer 
might  have  ventured  the  opinion  that  this  would  come 
in  time. 

It  is  the  character  of  Frenchmen  to  beat  women, — 
to  stab  them  in  the  back  one  day  when  they  are  bored 
with  them.  The  Paris  press  furnishes  daily  examples 
of  this  sort  of  chivalry.  As  a  rule,  the  life  of  wife  or 
mistress  in  France  is  a  condition  little  short  of  slavery. 
348 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  349 

The  mere  arrangement  of  words  is  unimportant  to 
the  woman  who  anticipates  blows,  and  who,  doubtless, 
after  the  fierce  fashion  of  the  Latins,  would  love  more 
intensely  when  these  blows  fell  thickest  and  heaviest. 
As  for  being  ordered  about  and  scolded,  it  was  a  recog- 
nition of  his  dependence  upon  her. 

Over  and  above  all  other  considerations  was  Jean's 
future  happiness.  In  this,  at  least,  they  were  har- 
monious. For  Jean  himself  was  also  looking  solely  to 
that  end. 

Since  that  memorable  night  when  one  brief  pencilled 
sentence  from  Inspector  Loup  had  bestowed  upon  her 
a  new  birth  she  found  double  reason  for  every  sacrifice. 
She  not  only  trampled  her  love  underfoot  with  new 
courage,  but  bent  all  her  energy  and  influence  towards 
the  reconciliation  of  Jean  Marot  and  Henri  Lerouge. 

Mile.  Fouchette  had  gone  to  the  hospital  every  day 
to  ascertain  the  young  man's  condition.  And  when  he 
had  been  pronounced  convalescent  she  ascertained  his 
new  address.  All  of  which  was  duly  reported  to  Jean, 
who  began  to  wonder  at  this  sudden  interest  in  one  for 
whom  she  had  formerly  expressed  only  dislike. 

Mile.  Fouchette  offered  no  explanation  of  her  con- 
duct,— a  woman  is  never  bound  to  give  a  reason  for 
her  change  of  opinions.  She  never  asked  to  see  Le- 
rouge,— never  sent  in  her  name  to  him, — but  merely 
inquired,  saying  she  was  sent  by  one  of  his  old  friends. 
As  she  had  intended,  the  name  of  this  friend,  Jean 
Marot,  had  been  finally  carried  to  Henri  Lerouge. 

One  day  she  had  seen  Mile.  Remy,  and  had  been  so 
agitated  and  nervous  that  it  was  all  she  could  do  to 
sustain  herself  in  the  shadow  of  one  of  the  great  stone 


350  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

columns.  She  had  watched  for  this  opportunity  for 
days ;  yet  when  it  suddenly  presented  itself  she  could 
only  hide,  trembling,  and  permit  the  girl  to  pass  with- 
out a  word. 

"  If  I  could  only  touch  her ! — feel  her  pretty  fingers 
in  my  hand !  Ah !  but  can  I  ever  bring  myself  to  that 
without  betrayal  ?  They  would  be  so  happy !  and  I, — 
why  should  I  not  be  happy  also  ?  I  love  him, — I  love 
her, — and  if  they  love  each  other, — she  can  help  it 
no  more  than  he, — it  would  be  impossible !" 

Thus  she  reasoned  with  herself  as  the  sunny  head  of 
Mile.  Remy  disappeared  in  the  gloomy  corridor.  Thus 
she  reasoned  with  herself  over  and  over  again,  as  if 
the  resolution  she  had  taken  required  constant  bracing 
and  strengthening. 

And  it  did  require  it. 

For  Mile.  Fouchette,  humble  child  of  the  slums,  had 
bravely  cut  out  for  herself  a  task  that  would  have  ap- 
palled the  stoutest  moralist. 

Love  had  not  only  softened  the  nature  of  Mile.  Fou- 
chette, as  is  seen, — it  had  revolutionized  her.  The 
fierce  spirit  to  which  she  owed  her  reputation — of  the 
feline  claws  and  ready  boot-heel — had  vanished  and 
left  her  weak  and  sensitive  and  meekly  submissive. 
Personally  she  had  not  realized  this  change  because 
she  had  not  reasoned  with  herself  on  the  subject.  Not 
only  her  whole  time  but  her  entire  mind  and  soul  were 
absorbed  in  the  service  of  Love.  She  gloried  in  her 
self-abasement. 

Mile.  Fouchette  would  have  gone  farther, — would 
have  deliberately  and  gladly  sacrificed  everything  that 
a  woman  can  lay  upon  the  altar  of  her  affections.  She 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  351 

had  no  moral  scruples,  being  only  a  poor  little  heathen 
among  the  heathen. 

Somewhat  disappointed  and  not  a  little  chagrined 
at  first  that  Jean  had  not  required,  or  even  hinted  at, 
this  sacrifice,  she  had  ended  by  secretly  exulting  in  this 
nobility  of  character  that  made  him  superior  to  other 
young  men,  and  distinctly  approved  of  his  fidelity  to 
the  image  in  his  heart.  Deprived  of  this  means  of 
proving  her  complete  devotion  to  him,  she  elevated 
him  upon  a  higher  pedestal  and  prostrated  herself  more 
humbly. 

Wherein  she  differed  materially  from  the  late  Ma- 
dame Potiphar. 

As  for  Jean  Marot,  it  is  to  be  reluctantly  admitted 
that  he  really  deserved  none  of  this  moral  exaltation, 
being  merely  human,  and  a  common  type  of  the  people 
who  had  abolished  God  and  kings  in  one  fell  swoop, 
constructed  a  calendar  to  suit  themselves,  and  wor- 
shipped Reason  in  Notre  Dame  represented  by  a  ballet 
dancer.  In  other  words,  he  was  an  egoist  of  the  ego- 
ists of  earth. 

He  was,  in  fact,  so  unbearably  a  bear  in  his  treat- 
ment of  little  Fouchette  that  only  the  most  extraordi- 
nary circumstances  would  seem  to  excuse  him. 

And  the  circumstances  were  quite  extraordinary. 
Jean  was  suffering  from  personal  notoriety.  Unseen 
hands  were  tossing  him  about  and  pulling  him  to 
pieces.  Unknown  purposes  held  him  as  in  a  vice. 

Within  the  last  two  weeks  his  mail  had  grown  from 
two  to  some  twenty  letters  a  day, — most  of  which  let- 
ters were  not  only  of  a  strongly  incendiary  nature,  but 
expressed  a  wholly  false  conception  of  his  political 


352  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

position  and  desires.  He  was  being  inundated  by  in- 
discriminate praise  and  abuse.  There  were  reams  of 
well-meant  advice  and  quires  of  threats  of  vioknce. 

Among  these  letters  had  been  some  enclosing  money 
and  drafts  to  a  considerable  amount, — to  be  used  in  a 
way  which  was  plainly  apparent.  From  a  distin- 
guished royalist  he  had  received  in  a  single  cover  the 
sum  of  ten  thousand  francs  "  for  the  cause."  From 
another  had  come  five  thousand  francs  for  his  "  per- 
sonal use."  Various  smaller  sums  aggregated  not  less 
than  ten  thousand  francs  more,  most  of  which  was  to 
be  expended  at  discretion  in  the  restoration  of  a 
"  good"  and  "  stable"  and  "  respectable"  government 
to  unhappy  France.  Besides  cash  were  drafts  and 
promises, — the  latter  reaching  unmeasured  sums.  And 
interspersed  with  all  these  were  strong  hints  of  po- 
litical preferment  that  would  have  turned  almost  any 
youthful  head  less  obstinate  than  that  which  orna- 
mented the  broad  shoulders  of  Jean  Marot. 

At  first  Jean  was  amused,  then  he  was  astonished. 
Finally  he  became  indignant  and  angry  to  the  bursting- 
point. 

It  was  several  days  before  he  could  adequately  com- 
prehend what  had  provoked  this  furious  storm,  with  its 
shower  of  money  and  warning  flashes  of  wrath  and 
rumblings  of  violence.  Then  it  became  clear  that  he 
was  being  made  the  political  tool  of  the  reactionary 
combination  then  laying  the  axe  at  the  root  of  the 
republican  tree.  The  Orleanists,  Bonapartists,  Anti- 
Semites,  and  their  allies  were  quick  to  see  the  value  of 
a  popular  leader  in  the  most  turbulent  and  unmanage- 
able quarter  of  Paris.  The  Quartier  Latin  was  second 


MLLE.    FOUCHETTE  353 

only  to  Montmartre  as  a  propagating  bed  for  revolu- 
tion; the  fiery  youth  of  the  great  schools  were  quite 
as  important  as  the  butchers  of  La  Villette. 

The  conclusions  of  the  young  leader  were  materially 
assisted  and  hastened  by  the  flattering  attention  with 
which  he  was  received  by  the  young  men  wearing 
royalist  badges,  and  by  the  black  looks  from  the  more 
timid  republicans.  He  thereupon  avoided  the  streets 
of  the  quarter,  and  devoted  his  time  to  answering  such 
letters  as  bore  signature  and  address.  He  sought  to 
disabuse  the  public  mind,  so  far  as  the  writers  were 
concerned,  by  declaring  his  adherence  to  the  republic, 
and  by  returning  the  money  so  far  as  possible. 

Jean  Marot  had  now  for  the  first  time,  with  many 
others,  turned  his  attention  to  the  revelations  in  the 
Dreyfus  case  as  appeared  in  the  Figaro,  and  saw  with 
amazement  the  use  being  made  of  a  wholly  fictitious 
crisis  to  destroy  French  liberty.  He  was  appalled  at 
these  disclosures.  Not  that  they  demonstrated  the  in- 
nocence of  a  condemned  man,  but  because  they  showed 
the  utter  absence  of  conscience  on  the  part  of  his  ac- 
cusers and  the  criminal  ignorance  of  the  military 
leaders  on  whom  France  relied  in  the  hour  of  public 
danger.  For  the  first  time  he  saw,  what  the  whole 
civilized  world  outside  of  France  had  seen  with  sur- 
prise and  indignation,  that  the  conviction  of  Captain 
Dreyfus  rested  upon  the  testimony  of  a  staff-officer 
of  noble  blood  who  lived  openly  and  shamelessly  on 
the  immoral  earnings  of  his  mistress,  and  who  was  the 
self-acknowledged  agent  of  a  maison  de  toleration  on 
commission.  In  the  person  of  this  distinguished  mem- 
ber of  the  "  condotteri"  was  centred  the  so-called 

23 


354  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  honor  of  the  army."  As  for  the  so-called  "  evi- 
dence," no  police  judge  of  England  or  America  would 
have  given  a  man  five  days  on  it. 

Matters  were  at  this  stage  when  one  morning  about 
a  fortnight  since  the  day  Mile.  Fouchette  had  changed 
masters  they  reached  the  bursting-point.  Jean  sud- 
denly jumped  from  his  seat  where  he  had  been  looking 
over  his  mail  and  broke  into  a  torrent  of  invective. 

"  Dame !"  said  Mile.  Fouchette,  coming  in  from  the 
kitchen  in  the  act  of  manipulating  a  plate  with  a  towel, 
— "  surely,  Monsieur  Jean,  it  can't  be  as  bad  as  that !" 

"  Mille  tonnerres !"  cried  Jean,  kicking  the  chair 
viciously, — "  it's  worse !" 

"Worse?" 

"  Fouchette,  you're  a  fool !" 

Mile.  Fouchette  kicked  the  door  till  it  rattled.  She 
also  used  oaths,  rare  for  her. 

"  Stop !"  he  roared.  "  What  in  the  devil's  name  are 
you  doing  that  for?  Stop!" 

"  Why  not?  I  don't  want  to  be  a  fool.  I  want  to 
do  just  as  you  do,  monsieur !" 

"  Oh,  yes !  it  is  funny ;  but  suppose  Inspector  Loup 
wanted  you  for  a  spy " 

The  plate  slipped  to  the  floor  with  a  loud  crash. 

"  There !"  he  exclaimed.  And  seeing  how  confused 
she  got, — "  Never  mind,  Fouchette.  Come  here ! 
Look  at  that !" 

Inspector  Loup  had  politely  requested  Monsieur 
Marot  to  furnish  privately  any  information  in  connec- 
tion with  the  recent  discoveries  at  his  appartement 
which  might  be  useful  to  the  government, — especially 
in  the  nature  of  correspondence,  etc. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  355 

As  if  Inspector  Loup  had  no  agents  in  the  Postes  et 
Telegraphes  and  had  not  already  generously  sampled 
the  contents  of  Jean's  mail,  going  and  coming!  But 
there  are  some  cynical  plotters  in  France  who  never 
use  the  public  mails  and,  understanding  the  thorough- 
ness of  the  Secret  System,  prefer  direct  communica- 
tion. 

"  It  is  infamous !"  said  the  girl,  when  she  had  calmly 
perused  the  letter. 

"  It  is  damnable !"  said  Jean. 

"  Still,  it  is  his  business  to  know." 

"  It  is  a  miserable  business, — a  dishonorable  busi- 
ness !  And  Monsieur  1'Inspecteur  will  follow  his  dirty 
trade  without  any  help  from  me !" 

"  Very  surely !"  said  Mile.  Fouchette,  emphatically. 

"  I've  had  enough  of  politics." 

"  Good !"  cried  she,  gleefully. 

"  But,  I'd  like  to  punch  the  fellow  who  wrote  this," 
he  muttered,  tearing  an  insulting  letter  into  little  bits 
and  throwing  them  on  the  floor. 

She  laughed.    "  But  that  is  politics,"  she  remarked. 

"  True.  We  Frenchmen  are  worse  than  the  Irish. 
I  sometimes  doubt  if  we  are  really  fit  for  self-govern- 
ment ;  don't  you  know  ?" 

"  Mon  ami,  you  are  improving  rapidly,"  she  replied, 
with  a  meaning  smile, — "  why  not  others  ?" 

"I— I— millediables!" 

"What!    Another?" 

"Worse!" 

He  slammed  his  fist  upon  the  table  in  sudden  pas- 
sion. 

"  It  is  very  provoking,  but " 


356  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  Read  it !"  he  said,  dejectedly. 

She  read  beneath  a  Lyon  date-line,  in  a  small, 
crabbed,  round  hand, — 

"  You  are  not  only  a  scoundrel,  but  a  traitor,  and 
you  dishonor  the  mother  who  bore  you  as  you  betray 
the  country  which  gives  you  shelter  and  protection." 

"  He's  a  liar !"  cried  the  girl,  with  a  flash  of  her 
former  spirit. 

"  He  is  my  father !"  said  Jean,  scarcely  able  to  re- 
press his  tears. 

"Ah!   mon  Dieu!" 

She  slipped  down  at  his  knees  and  covered  his  hand 
with  kisses. 

"  He  cannot  know ! — he  cannot  know !"  she  said,  con- 
soling him.  "  He  has  only  read  the  newspapers,  like 
the  rest.  If  he  knew  the  truth,  mon  ami !" 

"  Well !"  sighed  the  young  man, — "  let  us  see, — a 
telegram?  I  hadn't  noticed  that.  There  can  be 
nothing  worse  than  what  one's  father  can  write  his 
son." 

He  read  in  silence,  then  passed  it  to  her  with  a  shrug 
of  the  shoulders. 

"  Monsieur  de  Beauchamp !"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Yes." 
' '  Come  to  Brussels  at  once.'  " 

"  It  is  the  Due  d'Orleans." 

"Bah!" 

"  He  knows,  then,  that  I  am  in  possession." 

"  Yes,— certainly." 

"  Probably  wants  me  to  take  charge  of  his  guns — 

"  And  dynamite  bombs " 

"  The  wretches !" 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  357 

"  You  can  tell  him  you  have  turned  them  over  to 
Inspector  Loup." 

"  I  will,  pardieu !" 

He  was  inspecting  the  superscription  of  the  next  en- 
velope. 

"  Something  familiar  about  that.  Ah  !  its  from  Le- 
rouge !" 

"  Lerouge !" 

"  Very  good,  very  good !    Look !" 

Jean  jumped  up  excitedly, — this  time  with  evident 
pleasure. 

"  Coming  here !   and  to-night !    Good !" 

"  Oh !  I'm  so  glad,  mon  ami !"  exclaimed  Mile.  Fou- 
chette.  "  And,  see !  '  toi !' — he  calls  you  '  thee ;'  he  is 
not  angry !" 

The  note  from  Lerouge  was  simply  a  line,  as  if  in 
answer  to  something  of  the  day. 

"  Merci, — je  serai  chez  toi  ce  soir." 

"  '  Toi,' — it  is  good !"  said  the  girl. 

"  Yes,  it  looks  fair.  And  Henri  always  had  the  way 
of  getting  a  world  of  meaning  in  a  few  words." 

"  It  is  as  if  there  had  occurred  nothing." 

"  Yes, — to-night, — and  we  must  prepare  him  a  wel- 
come of  some  kind.  I  will  write  him  as  to  the  hour. 
Let  us  say  a  supper,  eh,  Fouchette?" 

"A  supper?  and  here?  to-night?" 

Mile.  Fouchette  recoiled  with  dismay  written  in 
every  line  of  her  countenance. 

"  I  don't  see  anything  so  strange  or  horrible  about 
that,"  said  Jean.  "  I  did  not  propose  to  serve  you  for 
supper." 

"N-no;  only " 


358  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"Well?" 

Mile.  Fouchette  was  greatly  agitated.  He  looked  at 
her  curiously.  Monsieur  Lerouge  coming  to  see  him 
and  coming  to  supper — where  she  must  be  present — 
were  widely  different  propositions  according  to  Mile. 
Fouchette;  for  she  had  hailed  the  first  with  delight 
and  the  second  in  utter  confusion. 

"  Fouchette,  why  don't  you  say  at  once  that  you 
don't  want  to  do  it !"  he  brutally  added. 

"  You  do  not  understand.  Would  it  be  well  for — 
for  you,  mon  ami  ?  It  is  not  for  myself.  He  probably 
does  not  know  me." 

"  What  if  he  does  ?  It  strikes  me  that  you  are  grow- 
ing mighty  nice  of  late.  I  don't  see  what  Lerouge  has 
to  do  with  you, — and  you  have  pretended " 

"Pretended?    Oh,  monsieur!    I  beg— 

"  Very  well,"  he  interrupted.  "  We  can  go  out  to  a 
restaurant,  I  suppose,  since  you  don't  seem  to  want 
to  take  that  trouble  for  me." 

"  Oh,  monsieur !"  she  protested,  earnestly,  "  it  is 
not  that;  I  would  be  glad,  only — if  it  were  not  Le- 
rouge." 

"  And  why  not  Lerouge,  pray?" 

"  But,  mon  ami,  would  he  not  tell  his  sister  that— 

"  Nonsense !" 

"  I  know "  she  hesitated. 

"  Pouf !  Lerouge  will  not  know  you.  And  what  if 
he  did  recognize  the — the " 

"  Savatiere " 

"  Yes ;  what,  then  ?  But,  say !  Fouchette,  you  shall 
wear  that  pretty  bonne  costume  I  got  you.  Hein  ?" 

"  But,  mon  ami, — mon  cher  ami !   I'd  rather  not  do 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  359 

it,"  she  faltered.  "  If  Mademoiselle  Remy  should  hear 
of  it " 

"  Bah !  I  know  Lerouge.  He'd  think  you  my  ser- 
vant, my  model.  And  have  you  not  your  own  private 
establishment  to  retire  to  in  case — really,  you  must!" 

"  W-well,  be  it  so,  Monsieur  Jean ;  but  if  harm 
comes  of  it " 

"  It  will  be  my  fault,  not  yours.    It  goes !" 

Thus  Jean,  having  reduced  the  "  Savatiere"  to  the 
condition  of  unsalaried  servitude,  now  insisted  upon 
her  dressing  the  part. 

He  had  paid  her  no  empty  compliment  when  he  said 
that  she  looked  her  best  as  a  maid.  He  had  fitted  her 
out  for  an  evening  at  the  Bullier  for  twenty-five  francs. 
In  the  Quakerish  garb  of  a  French  bonne  she  had 
never  looked  so  demurely  sweet  in  her  life.  The  short 
skirt  showed  a  pair  of  small  feet  and  neat  round  ankles. 
Her  spotless  apron  accentuated  the  delicacy  of  the 
slender  waist.  And  with  a  cute  white  lace  cap  perched 
coquettishly  over  the  drooping  blonde  hair — well,  any- 
body could  see  that  Mile.  Fouchette  (become  simply 
Fouchette  by  this  metamorphosis)  was  really  a  pretty 
little  woman. 

And  Jean  kissed  her  on  both  cheeks  and  laughed  at 
her  because  they  reddened,  and  swore  she  was  the 
sweetest  little  "  bonne  a  toute  faire"  in  all  the  world. 

No  doubt  Marie  Antoinette  and  her  court  ladies 
looked  most  charming  when  they  played  peasant  at 
Petit  Trianon;  for  it  is  a  curious  fact  that  many 
women  show  to  better  physical  advantage  in  the  simple 
costume  of  a  neat  servant  than  in  the  silks  and  dia- 
monds of  the  mistress. 


360  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

As  for  Fouchette,  she  was  truly  artistic,  and  she 
knew  it.  The  "knowledge  that  Jean  comprehended  this 
and  admired  her  caused  her  eyes  to  shine  and  her  blood 
to  circulate  more  quickly.  And  a  woman  would  be 
more  than  mortal  who  is  not  to  be  consoled  by  the  con- 
sciousness of  a  successful  toilet. 

Yet  she  had  dressed  with  many  misgivings,  between 
many  sighs  and  broken  exclamations.  A  little  time  ago 
she  would  have  cared  nothing  whether  it  were  Le- 
rouge  or  anybody  else ;  but  now, — ah !  it  was  a  cruel 
test  of  her. 

True,  she  must  meet  Lerouge  some  time.  Oh ! 
surely.  She  must  see  Mile.  Remy,  too, — she  must  look 
into  his  sombre  eyes, — feel  the  gentle  touch  of  her 
hands !  Often, — yes ;  often ! 

For  if  Jean  married  Mile.  Remy,  perhaps  she,  Fou- 
chette, might — why  not?  She  would  become  their 
domestic,  could  she  not? 

Only,  to  meet  Lerouge  here, — in  this  way ! 

It  was  a  bitter  struggle,  but  love  conquered. 

Nevertheless,  she  felt  that  she  required  all  of  her 
natural  courage,  all  the  cleverness  learned  of  rogues 
and  the  stoicism  engrafted  by  suffering,  to  undergo  the 
ordeal  demanded  of  her  and  to  follow  the  chosen  path 
to  the  end. 

"  How  charming  you  look,  Fouchette !"  he  ex- 
claimed, when  she  appeared  in  the  evening. 

"  Thanks,  monsieur." 

She  gave  the  short  bob  of  the  professional  domestic. 
Her  face  was  wreathed  in  smiles. 

"  But,  I  say,  mon  enfant,  you  are  really  pretty." 

"Ah,  #!" 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  361 

She  was  blushing, — painfully,  because  she  knew  that 
she  was  blushing.  He  put  his  arm  about  her  waist  and 
attempted  to  kiss  her. 

"  No,  no,  no !"  she  cried,  with  an  air  of  vexation, — 
"  go  away !" 

"  But  you  are  really  artistic,  Fouchette.  I  must  have 
a  sitting  of  you  in  that  costume." 

He  had  made  several  sketches  of  her  head,  she 
serving  as  a  model  for  Mile.  Remy.  Only,  he  rilled 
them  out  to  suit  his  ideal.  Mile.  Fouchette  saw  this; 
yet  she  was  always  pleased  to  pose  for  him. 

"  That  is,  if  you  are  good,"  he  added,  in  his  conde- 
scending way. 

"  Have  no  fear, — I'll  be  good." 

"  Une  bonne  bonne,  say." 

"Bon-bon?    Va!" 

"  And  can  sit  still  long  enough." 

"  There !  I  can't  sit  still  now,  monsieur.  The  din- 
ner,— it  is  nearly  time." 

She  had  set  out  the  table  with  the  best  their  mutual 
resources  afforded.  She  had  run  up  and  down  the 
street  after  whatever  seemed  necessary  earlier  in  the 
day.  Now  that  final  arrangement  had  come,  nothing 
seemed  quite  satisfactory.  She  changed  this,  replaced 
that  with  something  else,  ran  backward  a  moment  to 
take  in  the  ensemble,  then  changed  things  back  again. 
She  had  the  exquisite  French  perception  of  the  incon- 
gruous in  form  and  color.  Between  times  she  was 
diving  in  and  out  of  the  little  kitchen,  where  the  soup 
was  simmering  and  where  a  chicken  from  the  nearest 
rotisserie  was  being  thoroughly  warmed  up.  And  in 
her  lively  comings  and  goings  she  wore  a  bright 


362  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

smile  and  kept  up  the  incessant  purr,  purr,  purr  of  a 
vivacious  tongue. 

"  And  you  must  have  champagne !"  said  she,  re- 
proachfully. 

He  had  come  in  with  the  bottles  under  his  arm. 
"  You  should  have  let  me  purchase  it,  at  least.  How 
much?" 

"  Ten  francs." 

"  Ten  francs !  It  is  frightful !  And  two  for  this 
claret,  I'll  warrant!" 

"  More  than  that,  innocent." 

"  What !  more  than " 

* "  Four  francs." 

She  held  up  her  little  hands,  speechless,  being  unable 
to  do  justice  to  his  extravagance.  He  laughed. 

"  It  is  an  important  occasion,"  said  he.  "  But,  really, 
you  are  simply  astonishing,  little  one." 

"La,  la,  la!" 

Jean  had  an  artistic  sense,  and  Mile.  Fouchette  now 
appealed  to  it.  He  watched  her  skipping  about  the 
place  and  tried  to  reconcile  this  sweet,  bright-eyed, 
light-hearted  creature  with  the  woman  he  had  known 
as  "  La  Savatiere." 

"  Que  diable !  but  she  is — well,  what  in  the  name  of 
all  the  goddesses  has  come  over  the  girl,  anyhow?  It 
can't  be  that  Lerouge — yet  she  didn't  want  to  have 
him  see  her  here." 

Conscious  of  this  scrutiny,  Fouchette  would  have 
been  compelled  to  retreat  to  the  kitchen  on  some  pre- 
text if  she  had  not  got  this  occasional  shelter  by  neces- 
sity. She  was  so  happy.  Her  heart  was  so  light  she 
could  not  be  quite  certain  if  she  were  really  on  the 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  363 

earth  or  not.  Never  had  Jean  looked  so  handsome  to 
her. 

"  Dame !  It  is  nothing,"  she  said  and  repeated  over 
and  over  to  herself, — "  it  is  nothing ;  and  yet  I  am 
surely  the  happiest  girl  in  the  world.  Oh,  when  he 
looks  at  me  with  his  beautiful  eyes  like  that  I  feel  as 
if  I  could  fly !  Mon  Dieu !  but  if  he  touched  me  now 
I  should  faint !  I  should  die !" 

A  vigorous  ring  at  the  door  smote  her  ear.  She 
trembled. 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  go,  melon  ?"  He  spoke  with 
a  sharpness  that  fell  on  her  like  a  blow. 

She  fumbled  nervously  at  her  apron-strings. 

"  Go  as  you  are,  stupid !" 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

If  her  heart  had  not  already  fallen  suddenly  to  zero, 
it  would  have  dropped  there  when  she  opened  the  ves- 
tibule door. 

The  elderly  image  of  Jean  Marot  stood  before  her. 
Somewhat  stouter  of  figure  and  broader  of  feature, 
with  full  grayish  beard  and  moustache  that  concealed 
the  outlines  of  the  lower  face,  but  still  such  a  striking 
likeness  of  father  to  son  that  even  one  less  versed  in 
the  human  physiognomy  than  Mile.  Fouchette  must 
have  at  once  recognized  Marot  pere.  The  deeply  re- 
cessed eyes  looked  darker  and  seemed  to  burn  more 
fiercely  than  Jean's,  and  more  accurately  suggested 
Lerouge.  Indeed,  to  the  casual  observer  the  man 
might  have  been  the  father  of  either  of  the  two  young 
men.  In  bearing  and  attire  the  figure  was  that  of  the 
prosperous  French  manufacturer.  His  voice  was 
coldly  harsh  and  imperious. 


364  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  So !  mademoiselle !" 

He  paused  in  the  vestibule  and  gazed  searchingly 
at  the  trembling  little  woman  with  a  fierce  glare  that 
made  her  feel  as  if  she  were  being  shrivelled  up  where 
she  stood. 

"  So !  May  I  inquire  whether  I  am  on  the  threshold 
of  Monsieur  Jean  Marot's  appartement  or  that  of  his 
—his " 

He  was  evidently  making  an  effort  to  preserve  his 
calmness,  but  the  words  seemed  to  choke  him. 

The  implication,  though  not  at  once  fully  understood 
by  Mile.  Fouchette,  had  the  effect  of  rousing  her  pow- 
ers of  resistance. 

"  It  is  Monsieur  Marot's,  monsieur,"  she  replied, 
with  dignity. 

"  And  you  are " 

"  His  servant,  monsieur." 

"Oh!    So!" 

"  And  you,  monsieur " 

"  I  am  his  father,  mademoiselle." 

"  Ah !"    He  need  not  have  told  her  that. 

At  this  instant  the  inner  door  was  thrown  wide  open, 
and  Jean,  who  had  recognized  his  father's  voice  with 
consternation,  was  in  the  opening. 

Father  and  son  stood  thus  confronting  each  other 
for  some  seconds,  mute, — the  father  sternly  and  with 
unrelenting  eye,  the  son  with  a  pride  sustained  by  ob- 
stinacy and  bitterness.  The  sting  of  his  father's  letter 
was  fresh,  and  he  nerved  himself  for  further  insults. 
Nor  had  he  to  wait  long,  for  his  father  advanced  upon 
him  as  he  retired  into  the  room,  with  a  growing  menace 
in  his  tone  at  every  successive  step. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  365 

"  So !    Here  you  are,  you — you " 

"Father!" 

The  old  man  had  excitedly  raised  his  hand  as  if  to 
strike  his  son  without  further  words,  but  he  found 
Mile.  FouChette  between  them. 

"  Monsieur !  Monsieur !  Hold,  Jean !  Do  not  an- 
swer him !  Not  now, — not  now  !* 

The  elder  Marot  glanced  at  her  as  if  she  were  some 
sort  of  vermin.  This  at  first,  then  he  hesitated  before 
kicking  her  out  of  the  way. 

"  Ah,  messieurs !  is  it  the  way  to  reconciliation  and 
love  to  go  at  it  in  hot  blood  and  hard  words  ?  Take  a 
little  time, — there  is  plenty  and  to  spare.  Anger  never 
settles  anything.  Sit  down,  monsieur,  will  you  not? 
Why,  Monsieur  Jean !  Will  you  not  offer  your  father 
a  chair?  And  remember,  he  is  your  father,  monsieur. 
Remember  that  before  you  speak.  It  is  easy  to  say 
hard  words,  but  the  cure  is  slow  and  difficult,  mes- 
sieurs. Why  not  deliberate  and  reason  without 
anger  ?" 

As  she  talked  she  placed  chairs,  towards  one  of 
which  she  gently  urged  Marot  senior.  Then  she  in- 
sisted upon  taking  his  hat.  A  man  with  his  hat  off  is 
not  so  easily  roused  to  anger  as  he  is  with  it  on,  nor 
can  one  maintain  his  resentment  at  the  highest  pitch 
while  sitting  down.  There  was  this  much  gained  by 
Mile.  Fouchette's  diplomacy. 

But  the  first  glance  about  the  room  restored  the 
father's  ^belligerency.  He  saw  the  elaborately  laid 
table,  the  flowers,  the  wine 

"  I  am  honored,  monsieur,"  he  said  to  his  son,  sarcas- 
tically, "  though  I  had  no  idea  that  you  expected  me." 


366  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 


"  It  is — er — I  had  a  friend " 

"  Oh !  I  know  quite  well  I  have  no  reason  to  antici- 
pate such  a  royal  welcome.  Yet  there  are  three 
plates " 

"That  was  for  Fouchette,"  said  Jean,  hastily  and 
unthinkingly.  "  You  will  be  welcome  at  my  humble 
table,  father." 

"  Fouchette," — he  had  noticed  the  glance  at  the  girl, 
now  making  a  pretence  of  arranging  the  table, — "  and 
so  this  is  Fouchette,  eh?  And  your  humble  table, 
eh?" 

The  irascible  old  gentleman  regarded  both  of  the 
adjuncts  of  life  de  garden  with  a  bitter  smile.  Still  it 
was  something  like  a  smile,  and  the  girl  was  quick  to 
take  advantage  of  it. 

"  Oh,  this  is  a  special  occasion,  monsieur, — a  recon- 
ciliation dinner." 

"  A  reconciliation  dinner,  eh  ?"  growled  the  old  man, 
suspicious  of  some  sly  allusion  to  himself  and  son. 
"  And  will  you  be  good  enough  to  speak  for  this 
dummy  here  and  inform  me  who  is  to  be  reconciled 
and  what  the  devil  you've  got  to  do  with  the  opera- 
tion?" 

"  To  be  sure !"  cried  Mile.  Fouchette,  with  affected 
gayety.  "  Only  I  must  begin  at  the  last  first.  I'm  the 
next-door  neighbor  of  Monsieur  Jean,  your  son,  and  I 
take  care  of  his  rooms  for  him — for  a  consideration. 
My  appartement  is  over  there,  monsieur,  if  you  please. 
We  are  poor,  but  we  must  eat "  * 

"  And  drink  champagne,"  put  in  the  elder  Marot, 
significantly. 

"  Is  not  champagne  more  fitting  for  the  reconcilia- 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  367 

tion  of  two  men  who  were  once  friends  than  would  be 
violent  words?"  she  asked,  with  spirit. 

"  Who  pays  for  it?  It  depends  upon  who  pays  for 
it!"  He  tried  to  ward  off  the  conclusion  by  hurling 
this  at  both  of  them. 

Jean  reddened.  He  knew  quite  well  the  insinuation. 
It  is  not  an  unusual  thing  for  Frenchmen  to  live  on  the 
product  of  a  woman's  shame. 

"  As  if  you  should  ask  me  if  I  were  a  thief,  father !" 
protested  the  young  man,  now  scarcely  able  to  restrain 
his  tears. 

"  And  as  if  we  had  not  pinched  and  saved  and  econ- 
omized and  all  that!  And  can  you  look  around  you 
and  not  see  that  ?"  She  had  hard  work  to  smother  her 
indignation. 

"  Come  to  the  point !"  retorted  the  elder  Marot,  im- 
patiently. "  The  woman !  Where  is  the  woman  ?" 

Jean  reddened  more  furiously  and  was  more  con- 
fused than  before. 

"  It  can't  be  this — this" — he  regarded  the  slender, 
girlish  figure  contemptuously — "  this  grisette  mena- 
gere !  You  are  not  such  a  fool  as  to " 

"  Oh !  no,  no,  no,  no !"  hastily  interrupted  Mile. 
Fouchette,  with  great  agitation.  "  Oh,  no,  monsieur ! 
Think  not  that !  She  is  an  angel !  I  am  nothing  to 
him, — nothing!  Only  a  poor  little  friend, — a  servant, 
monsieur, — one  who  wishes  him  well  and  would  do 
and  give  anything  to  see  him  happy !  Nothing  more, 
monsieur,  I  assure  you!  I — mon  Dieu!  nothing 
more !" 

There  was  almost  a  wail  in  her  last  note  of  too  much 
protestation. 


368  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

Both  father  and  son  scrutinized  her  attentively, 
while  the  color  came  and  went  in  her  now  downcast 
face, — the  one  with  a  puzzled  astonishment,  the  other 
with  surprised  alarm. 

And  both  understood. 

Not  being  himself  a  lover,  the  elder  Marot  divined 
at  once  what  Jean,  with  all  his  opportunities,  had  till 
now  failed  to  discover. 

Another  pull  at  the  bell  came  like  a  gift  from  heaven 
to  momentarily  relieve  poor  little  Fouchette  of  her  em- 
barrassment. 

Jean  started  nervously  to  his  feet,  in  sympathy  with 
her  intelligence,  but  by  no  means  relieved  in  mind. 

"  It  is  Lerouge,"  he  said,  desperately.  "  Attend, 
Fouchette !" 

The  father  glanced  from  one  to  the  other  quickly, 
inquiringly. 

"Lerouge?" 

"  Yes,  father, — it  is  he, — the  friend — whom  we — 
whom  I  expect — to  whom  I  owe  reparation — 

The  two  men  studied  each  other  in  silence  for  the 
few  seconds  that  followed,  and  Jean  saw  something 
like  aroused  curiosity  and  wonderment  in  his  father's 
face, — something  that  had  suddenly  taken  the  place  of 
anger. 

Mile.  Fouchette  had  anticipated  the  coming  of  Le- 
rouge with  quite  a  different  sentiment  to  that  which 
overpowered  Jean.  The  latter  saw  in  it  only  the  ruin 
of  his  most  cherished  hopes.  Fouchette,  on  the  other 
hand,  with  the  quicker  and  surer  intuition  of  the 
woman,  believed  the  time  now  ripe  for  the  reconcilia- 
tion of  not  'only  Jean  and  Lerouge,  but  of  father  and 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  369 

son.  It  would  be  impossible  for  Jean  and  his  father 
to  quarrel  before  this  third  party.  Time  would  be 
gained.  And  then,  were  not  the  two  affairs  one  ?  The 
straightening  out  of  the  tangle  between  the  friends 
must  carry  with  it  the  better  understanding  between 
Jean  and  his  father. 

As  to  herself,  the  girl  had  not  one  thought.  She 
was  completely  lifted  out  of  self, — carried  away  with 
the  intentness  of  her  solicitude  for  Jean's  future. 

The  situation  appealed  to  her  sharpest  instincts.  Its 
possibilities  passed  through  her  alert  mind  before  she 
had  reached  the  door.  Glorified  in  her  purpose,  she 
flung  it  wide  open. 

She  was  confronted  by  two  persons, — the  one  bow- 
ing, hat  in  hand ;  the  other  smiling,  radiantly  beauti- 
ful. 

Mile.  Fouchette  stood  for  a  moment  like  one  sud- 
denly turned  to  stone. 

This  was  more  than  she  had  bargained  for.  She 
leaned  against  the  wall  instinctively,  as  if  needing  more 
substantial  support  than  her  limbs.  Her  throat  seemed 
parched,  so  that  when  she  would  have  spoken  the  re- 
sult was  merely  a  spasmodic  gasp.  Even  the  friendly 
semi-darkness  of  the  little  antechamber  failed  to  hide 
her  confusion  from  her  visitors. 

Then,  recovering  her  self-possession  by  a  violent 
effort,  she  reopened  the  inner  door  and  announced, 
feebly, — 

"  Monsieur  Lerouge, — Mademoiselle  Remy !" 


CHAPTER   XXI 

FORTUNATELY  for  Mile.  Fouchette,  Jean's  astonish- 
ment and  temporary  confusion  at  the  unexpected  ap- 
parition of  the  angel  of  his  dreams  extinguished  every 
other  consideration. 

Mile.  Remy  stood  before  him — in  his  appartement — 
smiling,  gracious,  a  picture  of  feminine  youth  and  love- 
liness,— her  earnest  blue  eyes  looking  straight  into  his 
lustrous  brown  ones,  searching,  penetrante! 

He  forgot  Fouchette;  he  forgot  his  friend  Henri; 
he  forgot  even  the  presence  of  an  angry  father. 

"Hello,  Jean!" 

"  Henri,  mon  ami !" 

Recalled  partially  to  his  senses,  Jean  embraced  his 
old  friend  after  the  effusive,  dramatic  French  fashion. 
They  kissed  each  other's  cheeks,  as  if  they  were  broth- 
ers who  had  been  long  parted. 

"  We  will  begin  again,  Henri,"  said  Jean, — "  from 
this  moment  we  will  begin  again.  Forgive  me " 

"  There !"  cried  Henri,  "  let  us  not  go  into  that.  We 
have  both  of  us  need  of  forgiveness, — I  most  of  all. 
As  you  say,  let  us  begin  again.  And  in  making  a  good 
start,  permit  me  to  present  you  to  my  sister  Andree, 
whom  you  have  met  before,  and,  I  have  reason  to  be- 
lieve, wish  to  meet  again.  I  have  brought  her  along 
without  consulting  you,  first  because  she  insists  on 
going  where  I  go,  next  as  an  evidence  of  good  faith 
and  a  pledge  of  our  future  good-will.  Mademoiselle 
Remy,  mon  cher  ami." 

"  No  apology  is  necessary  for  bringing  in  the  sun- 
370 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  371 

shine  with  you,  mon  ami,"  said  Jean,  bending  over  the 
small  hand. 

"  Monsieur  Marot  is  complimentary,"  said  Mile. 
Remy. 

For  a  moment  her  eyes  drooped  beneath  his  ardent 
gaze. 

"  But,  then,  I  know  him  so  well,"  she  quickly 
added,  recovering  her  well-bred  self-possession, — "  yes, 
brother  Henri  has  often  talked  about  you,  and  I  have 
seen  you " 

There  was  a  faint  self-consciousness  apparent  here. 
And  he  knew  that  she  was  thinking  of  his  lonely 
watches  in  front  of  her  place  of  residence. 

They  rapidly  exchanged  the  usual  courtesies  of  the 
day,  in  the  usual  elaborate  and  ornate  Parisian  fashion. 

Mile.  Fouchette  saw  every  minute  detail  of  this 
meeting  with  an  expression  of  intense  concern.  She 
weighed  every  look  and  word  and  gesture  in  the  deli- 
cate, tremulous  balance  of  love's  understanding.  And 
she  realized  that  Jean's  way  was  clear  at  last,  and  at 
the  same  time  saw  the  consequences  to  herself. 

Well,  was  not  this  precisely  what  she  had  schemed 
and  labored  to  bring  about  ? 

Yet  she  stole  away  unobserved  to  the  little  kitchen, 
and  there  turned  her  face  to  the  wall  and  covered  her 
ears  with  her  hands,  as  if  to  shut  it  all  out.  Her  eyes 
were  dry,  but  her  heart  was  drenched  with  tears. 

Meanwhile,  the  elder  Marot,  who  had  risen  politely 
upon  the  entrance  of  Lerouge  and  his  sister,  stood  ap- 
parently transfixed  by  the  scene.  At  the  sight  of  An- 
dre e  his  face  assumed  a  curious  mixture  of  eagerness 
and  uncertainty.  Upon  the  mention  of  her  name  the 


372  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

uncertainty  disappeared.  A  flood  of  light  seemed  to 
burst  upon  him  with  the  encomiums  showered  upon 
his  son. 

When  Jean  turned  towards  his  father — being  re- 
minded by  a  plucking  of  the  sleeve — he  was  con- 
founded to  behold  a  face  of  smiles  instead  of  the  one 
recently  clouded  with  parental  wrath. 

"  This  is  m-my  father,  Monsieur  Lerouge, — Made- 
moiselle  " 

"  What  ?  Monsieur  Marot  ?  Why,  this  is  a  double 
pleasure !"  exclaimed  Lerouge,  briskly  seizing  the  out- 
stretched hand.  "  The  father  of  a  noble  son  must  per- 
force be  a  noble  father.  So  Andree  says,  and  Andree 
.has  good  intuitions. — Here,  Andree;  Jean's  father! 
Just  to  think  of  meeting  him  on  an  occasion  like  this !" 

Neither  Lerouge  nor  his  sister  knew  of  the  estrange- 
ment between  Jean  and  his  home.  They  had  puzzled 
their  heads  in  vain  as  to  the  reasons  for  Jean's  retire- 
ment to  the  Rue  St.  Jacques,  but  were  inclined  to  at- 
tribute it  to  politics  or  business  reverses. 

"Ah!  so  this  is  Monsieur  Lerouge, — of  Nantes," 
remarked  the  old  gentleman  when  he  got  an  opening. 

"  Of  Nantes,"  repeated  Lerouge. 

"  And  this  is  Andree, — bless  your  sweet  face ! — and 
— and," — turning  a  quizzical  look  on  the  wondering 
Jean, — "  and  '  the  woman' !" 

It  was  now  Lerouge's  turn  to  be  astonished.  Jean 
and  the  girl  attempted  to  conceal  their  rising  color  by 
casting  their  eyes  upon  the  floor.  Marot  pere  was 
master  of  the  situation. 

"  Your  father  was  a  noted  surgeon,"  he  continued, 
still  holding  the  girl's  hand. 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  373 

"  One  of  the  best  of  his  time,"  said  Henri,  proudly. 

"  And  your  mother " 

"  Is  dead,  monsieur." 

"  Ah !" 

The  look  of  pain  that  passed  swiftly  over  M.  Marot's 
face  was  reflected  in  an  audible  sigh. 

"  One  of  the  best  of  women,"  he  went  on,  musingly, 
— "  and  you  are  the  living  image  of  your  mother  when 
I  last  saw  her.  Her  name,  too " 

"  Oh,  monsieur !"  interrupted  Andree,  excitedly, 
"  you  knew  my  mother,  then  ?" 

"  So  well,  my  dear  girl,  that  I  asked  her  to  be  my 
wife." 

"Ah  I" 

"  Oh,  monsieur !" 

"Father!" 

"  That  is  the  truth.  It  is  the  additional  truth  that 
.  my  cousin,  the  doctor,  got  her." 

"  My  father  was  your  cousin  ?"  asked  Lerouge. 
"  Why,  I  come  right  by  the  family  resemblance,  Jean !" 

"  Yes,"  laughingly  retorted  the  latter,  "  and  the  fam- 
ily temper." 

"  I  was  not  aware  that  your  mother  again  married," 
observed  M.  Marot. 

"  Yes, — Monsieur  Frederic  Remy,  the  father  of 
Andree,  here,"  said  Henri.  "  Alas !  neither  he  nor 
my  mother  long  survived  the  loss  of  their  younger 
daughter." 

"  Then  there  is  yet  another  child  ?" 

"  Was,"  replied  the  young  man,  sadly.  "  For 
Louise,  who  was  two  years  younger  than  Andree, 
disappeared  one  day " 


374  MLLE.    FOUCHETTE 

"  Disappeared !" 

"  Yes ;  and  has  never  been  heard  of  to  this  date. 
She  was  scarcely  three  years  old.  Whether  she  wan- 
dered away  or  was  stolen,  is  dead  or  living,  we  do  not 
know.  She  was  never  seen  again." 

"What  a  terrible  blow!  What  a  terrible  blow!" 
murmured  the  elder  Marot,  thinking  of  the  unhappy 
mother. 

Mile.  Fouchette  had  reappeared  a  few  moments  be 
fore, — just  in  time  to  hear  this  family  history.     But 
she  immediately  returned  to  the  kitchen,  where  she 
sank  upon  a  low  stool  and  bowed  her  face  in  her 
hands. 

"Fouchette!    Here,  Fouchette!" 

It  was  Jean's  peremptory  voice. 

She  hastily  roused  herself.  She  re-entered  the  little 
salon,  and  upon  a  sign  from  Jean  conducted  Henri  Le- 
rouge  and  his  sister  to  Jean's  bedroom,  where  she 
assisted  Mile.  Remy  to  remove  her  hat.  For  up  to 
this  time  the  party  had  been  grouped  in  running  con- 
versation without  having  settled  down. 

"  How  you  tremble,  child !"  exclaimed  Andre  e, — 
"  and  you  look  so  scared  and  pale.  Is  it,  then,  so  bad 
as  all  that?  What  is  the  matter?  Have  they  been 
quarrelling?  I  don't  understand." 

"Andree!"  whispered  her  brother,  warningly. 
"  Remember  the  salt  woman !" 

Mile.  Fouchette  raised  one  little  nervous  finger  to 
her  lips  and  gently  closed  the  door. 

"  Pray  do  not  seem  to  notice,"  she  whispered.  "  But 
you  did  not  know,  then,  that  Jean  and  his  father  have 
been  estranged,  oh !  for  months  ?  That  the  poor  young 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  375 

man  had  been  cast  off, — forsaken  by  father  and 
mother " 

"  But  why  ?"  insisted  Mile.  Remy.  "  It  must  have 
been  something  dreadful, — some  horrible  mistake,  I 
mean.  Why  should " 

The  confusion  of  Mile.  Fouchette  was  too  evident 
to  press  this  questioning.  And  it  was  increased  by 
the  curious  manner  in  which  the  pair  regarded  her. 

For  a  single  instant  she  had  wavered.  She  had 
secretly  pressed  her  lips  to  her  sister's  dress,  and  she 
felt  that  she  could  give  the  whole  world  for  one  little 
loving  minute  in  her  sister's  arms. 

"  Fouchette !" 

At  least  one  dilemma  relieved  her  from  another ;  so 
she  flew  to  answer  Jean's  call,  like  the  well-trained  ser- 
vant she  was  fast  becoming. 

"  That's  right,  Fouchette.  I'm  glad  to  find  you  more 
attentive  to  our  guests  than  I  am.  But  I've  been  so 
confoundedly  upset — and  everlastingly  happy.  We 
shall  want  another  plate.  Yes,  my  father  will  honor 
us.  I  say,  Fouchette,  what  a  night !  What  a  night !" 

"  I  am  so  glad,  Monsieur  Jean !    I  am  so  glad !" 

He  considered  her  an  instant  and  then  hustled  her 
into  the  kitchen  and  shut  the  door.  "  Let  us  consult 
a  moment,  my  petite  menagere,"  were  his  last  words 
to  be  overheard.  In  the  kitchen  he  took  her  hands  in 
his. 

"  Look  here,  Fouchette !  I  owe  my  happiness  to 
you.  Everything,  mind  you, — everything!" 

"  But  have  I  not  been  happy,  too  ?" 

"  There !  For  what  you  have  done  for  me  I  could 
not  repay  you  in  a  lifetime,  little  one." 


376  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  Then  don't  try,  Monsieur  Jean,"  she  retorted,  as  if 
annoyed. 

"  And  I'm  going  to  ask  you  to  increase  the  obliga- 
tion. It  is  that  you  will  continue  to  preserve  the  char- 
acter you  have  assumed, — just  for  this  occasion,  you 
know.  It  will  save  me  from " 

"  Ah,  93. !  It  is  not  much,  Monsieur  Jean,"  she  inter- 
rupted, with  a  seraphic  smile.  "To  be  your  servant, 

monsieur,  is I  mean,  to  do  anything  to  please  you 

is  happiness." 

"  You  are  good,  Fouchette, — so  good !  And  when 
I  think  that  I  have  no  way  to  repay  you " 

"  Have  I  laid  claim  to  reward  ?"  she  interposed,  sud- 
denly withdrawing  her  hands.  ".Have  I  asked  for 
anything  ?" 

"  No,  no !  that  is  the  worst  of  it !" 

"  Only  your  friendship, — your — your  esteem,  mon- 
sieur,— it  is  enough.  Yet  now  that  your  affairs  are 
all  right  and  that  you  are  happy,  we  must — must  part, 

— it  will  be  necessary, — and — and "  There  was  a 

pleading  note  in  her  low  voice. 

"Well?" 

"  You  have  been  a  brother, — a  sort  of  a  brother  and 
protector  to  me,  anyhow,  you  know,  and  it  would 
wrong — nobody " 

The  blood  had  slowly  mounted  to  her  neck  as  she 
spoke  and  the  lips  quivered  a  little  as  she  offered  them. 

It  was  the  last,  and  when  he  was  gone  she  felt  that  it 
would  strengthen  her  and  enable  her  to  bear  up  under 
the  burden  she  had  laid  upon  herself.  She  went  about 
the  additional  preparations  for  the  dinner  mechanically. 

There  was  not  a  happier  quartette  in  all  Paris  on 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  377 

this  eventful  evening  than  that  which  sat  around  the 
little  table  in  Jean  Marot's  humble  appartement  in 
ancient  Rue  St.  Jacques. 

And  poor  little  Mile.  Fouchette ! 

The  very  sharpness  of  the  contrast  made  her  patient, 
resolute  abnegation  more  beautiful,  her  sacrifice  more 
complete,  her  poignant  suffering  more  divine.  Uncon- 
sciously she  rose  towards  the  elevated  plane  of  the 
Christ.  She  wore  the  crown  of  thorns  in  her  heart; 
on  her  face  shone  the  superhuman  smile  of  sainthood. 

If  in  his  present  sudden  and  overwhelming  happiness 
Jean  forgot  Mile.  Fouchette  except  when  she  was  actu- 
ally before  him  he  must  be  forgiven.  But  neither  his 
father  nor  Henri  Lerouge  was  so  blind,  though  the 
latter  evidently  saw  Mile.  Fouchette  from  a  totally 
different  point  of  view. 

The  gracious  manner  and  encouraging  smile  of  Mile. 
Remy  happily  diverted  Fouchette  from  the  considera- 
tion of  her  critics.  Every  kind  word  and  every  smile 
went  home  to  Mile.  Fouchette.  And  for  the  moment 
she  gave  way  to  the  pleasure  they  created,  as  a  stray 
kitten  leans  up  against  a  warm  brick.  Sometimes  it 
seemed  as  if  she  must  break  down  and  throw  herself 
upon  the  breast  of  this  lovely  girl  and  claim  her  natu- 
ral right  to  be  kept  there,  forever  next  to  her  heart! 

At  these  moments  she  had  recourse  to  her  kitchen, 
where  she  had  time  to  recover  her  equilibrium.  But 
Fouchette  was  a  more  than  ordinarily  self-possessed 
young  woman.  She  had  been  educated  in  a  severe 
school,  though  one  in  which  the  emotions  were  per- 
mitted free  range.  It  was  love  now  which  required 
the  curb. 


378  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

She  served  the  dinner  mechanically,  but  she  served  it 
well.  Amid  the  wit  and  badinage  she  preserved  the 
shelter  of  her  humble  station. 

Yet  she  knew  that  she  was  the  frequent  subject  of 
their  conversation.  She  saw  that  she  was  being 
covertly  scrutinized  by  Lerouge.  And,  what  was 
harder  to  bear,  the  elder  Marot  showed  his  sympathy 
by  good-natured  comments  on  her  appearance  and  ser- 
vice. The  cry  of  "  Fouchette !"  recalling  her  to  all  this 
from  her  refuge  in  the  kitchen  invariably  sent  a  tremor 
through  her  slender  frame. 

"  Henri  said  you  were  so  practical !"  laughingly  re- 
marked Mile.  Andre e. 

"  And  am  I  not  ?"  asked  Jean,  looking  around  the 
room. 

"  Not  a  bit !  There  is  nothing  practical  here, — no, — 
and  your  Fouchette  is  the  most  impossible  of  all." 

"Ah,  Jean!"  broke  in  Henri,  "this  Fouchette,— 
come  now,  tell  us  about  her." 

"  With  proper  reservations,"  said  M.  Marot,  seri- 
ously. 

"  No ;  everything !"  cried  Andree. 

She  could  see  that  it  teased  him,  and  persisted. 
"  Anybody  would  know  that  she  is  not  a  common  ser- 
vant. Look  at  her  hands !" 

"  I've  seen  your  Fouchette  somewhere  under  dif- 
ferent circumstances,"  muttered  Lerouge,  "  but  I  can't 
just  place  her." 

"  Well,"  said  Jean,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  "  she 
is  an  uncommon  servant." 

He  began  to  see  that  some  frankness  was  the  quickest 
way  out  of  an  unpleasant  subject.  "  The  fact  is,  as  she 


MLLE.    FOUCHETTE  379 

has  already  told  my  father,  Fouchette  is  an  artist's 
model  and  lives  next  door  to  me.  She  takes  care  of 
my  rooms  for  a  consideration.  But  all  the  money  in 
the  world  would  not  repay  what  I  owe  her, — quite  all 
of  my  present  happiness !  Let  me  add,  my  dear  made- 
moiselle, that  the  less  attention  you  show  her,  the  less 
you  seem  to  notice  her,  the  better  she  will  like  it." 

"How  interesting!"  cried  Andree;  "and  how  un- 
satisfactory !" 

"  Very,"  said  her  brother,  with  a  meaning  smile. 

"  Some  day,  mademoiselle,  I  will  tell  you, — not  now. 
I  beg  you  to  excuse  me  just  now." 

"  Certainly,  monsieur ;  but,  pardon  me,  she  must  be 
ill, — and  her  face  is  heavenly !" 

"  Is  it?"  asked  Jean.  "  I  had  not  noticed.  Perhaps 
because  one  heavenly  face  is  all  I  can  see  at  the  same 
time." 

"  Ah,  monsieur !" 

She  tried  to  hide  her  confusion  in  a  sip  of  cham- 
pagne. 

M.  Marot  and  Lerouge  became  suddenly  interested 
in  a  sketch  upon  the  wall  and  rose,  puffing  their  cigars, 
to  make  a  closer  and  more  leisurely  examination. 

Jean's  hand  somehow  came  in  contact  with  Andre e's, 
— does  any  one  know  how  these  things  come  about? — 
and  the  girl's  cheeks  grew  more  rosy  than  usual.  She 
straightway  forgot  Mile.  Fouchette.  Her  eyes  were 
lowered  and  she  gently  removed  her  hand  from  the 
table. 

"  Here  is  the  true  model  for  an  artist,"  said  he. 

"  But  I  never  sat,"  she  declared. 

"  Oh,  don't  be  too  sure." 


380  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  Never;  wouldn't  I  remember  it?" 

"  Perhaps  not.  One  doesn't  always  remember  every- 
thing." 

She  blushed  through  her  smile.  She  had  uncon- 
sciously yielded  her  hand  again. 

They  talked  airy  nothings  that  conceal  the  thoughts. 
Then,  in  a  few  minutes,  she  discovered  that  his  hand 
again  covered  hers  and  was  innocently  caressing  it. 
She  drew  it  away  in  alarm. 

"  Do  not  take  it  away !  Are  we  not  cousins,  made- 
moiselle?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  funny,  isn't  it  ?  Long-lost  cousins !" 
She  laughed  merrily. 

"  And  now  that  we  are  found " 

"  It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  had  known  you  a  long  time," 
she  continued, — "  for  years  and  years !  Or,  perhaps 
it  is  because — because- " 

"  Come !  let  me  show  you  something,"  he  inter- 
rupted, still  retaining  the  hand,  "  some  poor  sketches 
of  mine." 

He  led  her  to  the  portfolio-stand  in  the  corner  and 
seated  himself  at  her  feet. 

The  elder  connoisseurs,  meanwhile,  had  taken  the 
sketch  in  which  they  were  interested  from  its  place  on 
the  wall  to  the  better  light  at  the  table. 

"  '  La  Petite  Chatte.'  " 

"  An  expressive  title,  truly." 

"  Why,  its  Mademoiselle  Fouchette !"  exclaimed  M. 
Marot,  holding  the  picture  off  at  arm's  length. 

"  It  is,  indeed !  And  the  real  Fouchette  as  I  last  be- 
held her  at  the  notorious  Cafe  Barrate.  It's  the  '  Sava- 
tiere' !  That  solves  a  mystery." 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  381 

Lerouge  thereupon  took  M.  Marot  by  the  arm,  re- 
placed the  picture  on  the  wall,  and  led  the  old  gentle- 
man to  the  corner  farthest  from  that  occupied  by  the 
younger  couple,  and  there  the  two  conversed  over  their 
cigars  in  a  low  tone  for  a  long  time. 

In  that  time  they  had  mutually  disposed  of  the  other 
couple, — Henri  Lerouge,  as  brother  and  legal  custo- 
dian of  Mile.  Andre  e  Remy;  M.  Marot,  as  father  of 
Jean  Marot.  They  had  not  only  agreed  that  these  two 
should  marry,  but  had  arranged  as  to  the  amount  of 
the  "  dot"  of  the  girl  and  the  settlement  upon  the 
young  man.  Mile.  Andre  e  had  two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  francs  in  her  own  right,  but  the  chief  con- 
sideration in  the  case  was,  to  M.  Marot,  the  fact  that 
she  was  the  daughter  of  the  beautiful  woman  whom  he 
had  once  loved.  For  this  consideration  he  agreed  to 
double  the  amount  of  her  dot  and  give  his  son  a  junior 
partnership  in  the  silk  manufactory  at  Lyons. 

This  arrangement  had  no  relation  whatever  to  the 
sentiment  existing  between  the  young  couple.  It 
would  have  been  concluded,  just  the  same,  if  they  had 
not  loved. 

In  French  matrimonial  matters  love  is  a  mere  detail. 
The  parents,  or  those  who  stand  in  the  place  of  parents, 
are  the  absolute  masters,  and  therefore  the  high  con- 
tracting powers.  Sons  as  well  as  daughters  are  sub- 
ject to  this  will  until  after  marriage.  It  is  a  custom 
strong  as  statute  law.  If  inclination  coincide  with 
parental  desire,  well  and  good ;  if  not,  a  social  system 
which  rears  young  orphan  girls  to  feed  the  insatiate 
lust  of  Paris  winks  at  the  secret  lover  and  the  mis- 
tress. 


382  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

With  the  reasonable  certainty  of  the  approval  of  both 
father  and  brother  and  with  a  heart  surcharged  with 
love  for  the  sweet  girl  whom  he  felt  was  not  indif- 
ferent to  him,  Jean  had  reason  to  feel  happy  and 
confident.  As  they  bent  over  the  pictures  they  formed 
a  charming  picture  themselves. 

"  Really,  monsieur !" 

Mile.  Remy  saw  herself  reproduced  with  such  faith- 
fulness that  she  started. 

"Well?" 

Jean  looked  up  in  her  face  with  all  his  passion  con- 
centrated in  his  eyes. 

She  was  bending  over  the  head  of  a  young  girl  with 
a  profusion  of  fair  hair  down  upon  her  shoulders,  and 
she  forgot.  Another  showed  the  same  face  in  a  pen- 
and-ink  profile,  with  the  same  glorious  hair. 

"  They  are  amateurish ' 

"  Au  contraire,"  she  interrupted,  "  they  are  quite—- 
but Henri  did  not  tell  me,  monsieur,  that  you  were 
an  artist." 

"  And  he  was  right,  cousin." 

She  had  turned  her  face  away  from  the  light,  so 
he  could  not  see  her  blushes.  For  these  pictures  told 
a  story  of  love  more  vividly  and  more  eloquently  than 
words.  She  was  trying  to  piece  out  that  which  re- 
mained untold. 

"  The  pictures  are  well  done,  Cousin  Jean, — and 
your  model " 

"  Fouchette." 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  see  now !    She  is  a  model,  truly !" 

Mile.  Remy  seemed  to  derive  a  good  deal  of  satisfac- 
tion from  this  conclusion. 


IT    WAS    A    CRITICAL    MOM  KM 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  383 

"  But,"  she  added,  quickly,  "  do  you  think  she  looks 
so  much  like  me  ?" 

"  A  mere  suggestion,"  he  said. 

"  It  is  curious, — very  curious,  mon — Cousin  Jean ; 
but  do  you  know " 

Their  heads  were  very  close  together.  Uncon- 
sciously their  lips  met. 

Mile.  Fouchette  had  been  engaged  in  the  work  of 
washing  dishes.  It  was  an  excuse  to  kill  time  and 
something  to  occupy  her  attention.  As  she  carefully 
arranged  everything  in  its  place  she  realized  that  it 
was  for  the  last  occasion.  She  knew  her  work  was 
done.  So  she  made  everything  particularly  bright  and 
clean.  The  dessert  dishes  and  glasses  were  still  on  the 
table,  and  she  had  stepped  out  cautiously  and  timidly 
to  fetch  them.  It  was  a  critical  moment. 

With  the  noiseless  tread  of  a  scared  animal  she 
turned  back  again  into  the  kitchen,  and,  closing  the 
door  softly,  leaned  against  it  with  ghostly  face.  She 
quickly  stuffed  the  corner  of  her  apron  into  her  mouth 
to  keep  back  the  scream  of  agony  that  involuntarily 
rose  to  her  lips.  Her  thin  hands  were  tightly  clinched 
and  her  body  half  drawn  into  a  knot. 

"  Ah !  mon  Dieu !  mon  Dieu !" 

Even  the  Saviour  stumbled  and  fell  beneath  the 
heavy  cross  He  had  assumed  to  insure  the  happiness 
of  others. 

And  Mile.  Fouchette  was  only  a  poor  little,  weak, 
nervous,  ignorant  woman,  groping  blindly  along  the 
same  nigged  route  of  her  Calvary. 

Unconsciously  the  same  despairing  cry  had  broken 
from  her  lips. 


384  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  Fouchette !" 

It  was  Jean's  voice. 

Half  fainting,  half  terror-stricken  at  her  unfortu- 
nate position,  she  drew  a  needle  from  the  bosom  of 
her  dress  and  thrust  it  into  her  thigh — twice. 

"Fouchette!" 

"  Yes,  monsieur !" 

"  That  poor  girl  is  certainly  ill,  Je — Cousin  Jean," 
said  Mile.  Remy,  sympathetically. 

"  Nonsense !"  he  lightly  replied. 

He  wished  to  spare  the  unhappy  Fouchette  this  at- 
tention. "  She  has  worked  too  hard.  Drop  it  till  to- 
morrow, little  one,"  he  said,  gently.  "  You  must  let 
things  alone  for  to-night." 

"  Indeed,  it  is  nothing,  monsieur.  I  must  clear  away 
these  dessert  dishes " 

"  Have  a  glass  of  wine,"  insisted  Andree,  putting  her 
arm  affectionately  about  the  slender  waist  and  pouring 
out  a  glass  of  champagne. 

Lerouge  regarded  them  with  a  frown  of  disap- 
proval. Turning  to  M.  Marot,  he  said, — 

"  You  were  congratulating  France  just  now  upon  a 
new  ministry,  monsieur.  At  least  the  new  ministry 
ought  to  give  us  a  new  set  of  spies.  Don't  you 
think " 

But  the  wine-glass  broke  the  last  sentence,  as  it  fell 
to  the  floor  with  a  crash. 

Only  the  protecting  arm  of  Mile.  Remy  sustained  the 
drooping  figure  for  a  moment,  then  Jean  and  his 
affianced  bride  bore  it  gently  to  the  model's  home. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

"  C'EST  fini !" 

The  girl  raised  herself  wearily  from  her  knees  by  the 
side  of  her  bed,  where  she  had  fallen  when  she  had 
bravely  gotten  rid  of  Jean  and  Andree. 

"  C'est  fini !" 

She  repeated  the  words  as  she  looked  around  the 
room,  the  poor,  cheap  little  chamber  where  she  had 
been  so  happy.  Just  so  has  many  a  bereaved  returned 
from  the  freshly  made  grave  of  some  beloved  to  see 
the  terrible  emptiness  of  life  in  every  corner  of  the 
silent  home. 

Mile.  Fouchette  had  grievously  overrated  her  ca- 
pacity to  bear — to  suffer.  Instead  of  lightening  the 
load  she  had  assumed,  the  discovery  of  her  sister  in 
the  beloved  had  doubled  it. 

She  had  schooled  herself  to  believe  that  to  be  near 
the  object  of  her  love  would  be  enough.  She  had 
thought  that  all  else,  being  impossible,  might  be  sub- 
ordinated to  the  great  pleasure  of  presence.  That  to 
serve  him  daily,  to  share  after  a  fashion  his  smiles  and 
sorrows,  to  be  at  his  elbow  with  her  sympathy  and 
counsel,  would  be  her  happiness, — all  that  she  could 
ask  for  in  this  world.  It  would  be  almost  as  good  as 
marriage,  n'est-ce  pas? 

Fouchette  was  in  error.  Not  wholly  as  to  the  last 
assumption ;  it  was  a  false  theory,  marriage  or  no 
marriage.  Countless  thousands  of  better  and  more  in- 
tellectual people  have  in  other  ways  found,  are  finding, 
will  continue  to  find,  it  to  be  so. 

Mile.  Fouchette's  tactical  training  in  the  great  nor- 
35  385 


386  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

mal  school  of  life  had  not  embraced  Love.  Therefore 
no  line  of  retreat  had  been  considered.  She  was  not 
only  -defeated,  she  was  overwhelmed. 

All  of  her  theories  had  vanished  in  a  breath. 

Instead  of  finding  happiness  in  the  happiness  of  those 
whom  she  loved,  it  was  torture, — the  thumbscrew  and 
the  rack.  It  was  terrible ! 

How  could  she  have  imagined  that  she  might  live 
contentedly  under  this  day  after  day  ? 

The  malice  of  Lerouge  had  been  but  the  knock-out 
blow.  It  seemed  to  her  now  that  his  part  was  not  half 
so  cruel  as  that  one  kiss, — the  kiss  of  Andre e's,  that 
had  stolen  hers,  Fouchette's,  from  his  warm  lips ! 

Yes,  it  was  finished. 

There  was  nothing  to  live  for  now.  Her  sun  had 
set.  The  light  had  gone  out,  leaving  her  alone,  friend- 
less, without  a  future. 

The  fact  that  she  had  herself  willed  it,  brought  it 
about,  and  that  she  earnestly  desired  their  happiness, 
made  her  despair  none  the  less  dark  and  profound. 

She  felt  that  she  must  get  away, — must  escape  in 
some  way  from  the  consequences  of  her  own  folly. 

She  precipitated  herself  down  the  narrow  stairs  at 
the  risk  of  her  neck  and  darted  down  the  Rue  St. 
Jacques  half  crazed  with  grief.  She  had  made  no 
change  in  her  attire,  had  not  even  paused  to  restrain 
the  blonde  hair  that  fell  over  her  face. 

Rue  St.  Jacques  is  in  high  feather  at  this  hour  in  the 
evening.  It  is  the  hour  of  the  jolly  roysterer,  male  and 
female.  Students,  soldiers,  bohemians,  and  bums  jostle 
each  other  on  the  corners,  while  the  dame  de  trottoir 
stealthily  lurks  in  the  shadows  with  one  eye  out  for 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  387 

possible  victims  and  the  other  for  the  agents  de  police. 
The  cafes  and  wine-shops  are  aglare  and  the  terrasse 
chairs  are  crowded  to  their  fullest  of  the  day. 

The  spectacle,  therefore,  of  a  pretty  bonne  racing 
along  the  middle  of  the  street  very  naturally  attracted 
considerable  attention. 

This  attention  became  excitement  when  another 
woman,  who  seemed  to  spring  from  the  same  source, 
broke  away  in  hot  pursuit  of  the  servant. 

Nothing  so  generously  appealed  to  the  sensitiveness 
of  Rue  St.  Jacques  as  a  case  of  jealousy,  and  women- 
baiting  was  a  favorite  amusement  of  the  quarter. 

There  was  now  a  universal  howl  of  delight  and  ap- 
probation. When  the  pursuing  woman  tripped  and 
fell  into  the  gutter  the  crowd  greeted  the  unfortunate 
with  a  shower  of  unprintable  pleasantries. 

"  Ma  foi !  but  she  is  outclassed !" 

"  Oh,  she's  only  stopped  to  rest." 

"  Too  much  absinthe !" 

"  The  cow  can  never  catch  the  calf !" 

"  The  fat  salope !  To  think  she  could  have  any  show 
in  a  race  or  in  love  with  the  pretty  bonne !" 

"  Yes ;  but  where's  the  man  ?" 

"  Dame !    It  is  one-eyed  Mad !" 

"  Let  her  alone, — she's  drunk !" 

The  fallen  woman  had  laboriously  regained  her  feet 
and  turned  a  torrent  of  vulgar  maledictions  upon  the 
jeering  crowd. 

Then,  having  regained  her  equilibrium,  she  stag- 
gered forward  in  renewed  pursuit.  The  broad-bladed, 
double-edged  knife  of  the  Paris  assassin  gleamed  in 
her  right  hand. 


388  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  Bah !  she  will  never  catch  her,"  said  a  man  whose 
attention  had  been  called  to  this. 

"  Let  them  fight  it  out,"  assented  his  companion. 

"  Hold !    She  is  down  again." 

Madeleine  had  reached  the  Rue  Soufflot,  and,  in 
turning  the  corner  sharply,  had  fallen  against  the 
irregular  curb. 

The  stragglers  from  the  wine-shops  hooted.  The 
drunken  women  fairly  screamed  with  delight.  It  was 
so  amusing. 

But  Madeleine  did  not  get  up  this  time. 

This  was  more  amusing  still;  for  the  crowd,  now 
considerably  augmented  by  the  refuse  from  the 
neighboring  tenements,  launched  all  sorts  of  humorous 
suggestions  at  the  prostrate  figure,  laughing  uproar- 
iously at  individual  wit. 

A  few  ran  to  where  the  dark  figure  lay,  and  a  merry 
ruffian  playfully  kicked  the  prostrate  woman. 

Still  the  woman  stirred  not. 

The  ruffian  who  had  just  administered  the  kick 
slipped  and  fell  upon  her,  whereat  the  crowd  fairly 
split  with  laughter.  It  was  so  droll ! 

But  the  man  did  not  join  in  this,  for  he  saw  that  he 
had  slipped  in  a  thin  red  stream  that  flowed  sluggishly 
towards  the  gutter,  and  that  his  hands  were  covered 
with  warm  blood. 

"  Pardieu !  she's  dead,"  he  whispered. 

And  they  gently  turned  her  over,  and  found  that  it 
was  so. 

Madeleine  had  fallen  upon  her  arm,  and  the  terrible 
knife  was  yet  embedded  in  her  heart. 


MLLE.    FOUCHETTE  389 

Meanwhile,  unconscious  of  this  pursuit  and  its  fatal 
consequences,  Mile.  Fouchette  had  swiftly  passed  from 
the  narrow  Rue  St.  Jacques  into  Rue  Soufflot,  and  was 
flying  across  the  broad  Place  du  Pantheon.  Blind  to 
the  glare  of  the  wine-shops,  deaf  to  the  gay  chanson 
of  a  group  of  students  and  grisettes  swinging  by  from 
the  Cafe  du  Henri  Murger, — indeed,  dead  to  all  the 
world, — the  grief-stricken  girl  still  ran  at  the  top  of  her 
speed — towards 

The  river? 

Her  poor  little  overtaxed  brain  was  in  a  whirl.  She 
had  no  definite  idea  of  anything  beyond  getting  away. 
As  a  patient  domestic  beast  of  burden  suddenly  re- 
sumes his  savage  state  and  rushes  blindly,  pell-mell, 
he  knows  not  where,  »so  Mile.  Fouchette  now  plunged 
into  the  oblivion  of  the  night. 

Unconsciously,  too,  she  had  taken  the  road  to  the 
river, — the  broad  and  well-travelled  route  of  the  Pari- 
sian unfortunate. 

Ah !   the  river ! 

For  the  first  time  it  occurred  to  her  now, — how  many 
unbearable  griefs  the  river  had  swallowed  up. 

There  were  so  many  things  worse  than  death.  One 
of  these  was  to  live  as  Madeleine  had  lived.  Never 
that!  Never!  Not  now, — once,  perhaps;  but  not 
now.  Oh,  no ;  not  now ! 

The  river  seemed  to  beckon  to  her, — to  call  upon  her, 
reproachfully,  to  come  back  to  it, — to  open  its  slimy 
arms  and  invite  her  to  the  palpitating  bosom  that  had 
soothed  the  sorrows  of  so  many  thousands  of  the  chil- 
dren of  civilization. 

And  Fouchette  was  the  offspring  of  the  river.    Why 


390  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

had  she  been  spared,  then?  Had  it  proved  worth 
while  ? 

She  recalled  every  incident  of  that  eventful  period. 
She  remembered  the  precise  spot  where  she  had  been 
pulled  out  that  gray  morning,  years  before. 

This  idea  had  flitted  through  her  mind,  at  first 
vaguely,  then,  still  unsought,  began  to  assume  definite 
shape. 

Eh,  bien, — soit !    From  the  river  to  the  river ! 

Mile.  Fouchette,  as  we  have  seen,  had  all  the  spon- 
taneity of  her  race,  accentuated  by  a  life  of  caprice  and 
reckless  abandon.  To  conceive  was  to  execute.  Con- 
sequences were  an  after-consideration,  if  at  all  worthy 
of  such  a  thing  as  consideration. 

She  stopped.  But  this  hesitation  was  not  in  the  exe- 
cution of  her  suddenly  formed  purpose.  It  was  neces- 
sary to  recover  breath,  and  to  decide  whether  to  go  by 
the  way  of  the  Rue  Clovis,  or  to  turn  down  by  the 
steep  of  Rue  de  la  Mont  Ste.  Genevieve  to  the  Boule- 
vard St.  Germain. 

It  was  but  for  a  few  panting  moments. 

The  clock  of  the  ancient  campanile  of  the  Lycee 
Henri  IV.  struck  the  hour  of  eleven.  The  hoarse,  low, 
booming  sound  went  sullenly  rumbling  and  roaring  up 
and  down  the  stone-ribbed  plaza  of  the  Pantheon,  and 
rolled  and  reverberated  from  the  great  dome  that  shel- 
tered the  illustrious  dead  of  France. 

The  curious  old  church  of  St.  fitienne  du  Mont  rose 
immediately  in  front  of  the  girl,  and  the  sound  of  the 
bells  startled  her, — shook  her  ideas  together, — and, 
with  the  sight  of  the  church,  restored,  in  a  measure, 
her  presence  of  mind. 


MLLE.    FOUCHETTE  391 

r 

Her  thoughts  flew  instantly  back  to  the  happy  scene 
she  had  recently  left  behind.  The  bells  of  the  old 
tower, — ah!  how  often  she  and  Jean  had  regulated 
their  menage  by  their  music! 

And  she  looked  up  at  the  grimly  mixed  pile  of  four 
centuries,  with  its  absurd  little  round  tower,  its  gro- 
tesque gargouilles,  and  grass-grown  walls, — St. 
fitienne  du  Mont. 

Doubtless  they  would  be  married  here. 

To  be  married  where  reposed  the  blessed  bones  of 
Ste.  Genevieve,  or  at  St.  Denis  amid  the  relics  of  roy- 
alty, was  the  dream  of  every  youthful  Parisienne.  And 
Ste.  Genevieve  was  the  patronne  of  the  virgins  as  well 
as  of  the  city  of  Paris. 

Mile.  Fouchette  had  witnessed  a  wedding  at  good 
old  St.  fitienne  du  Mont, — indeed,  any  one  might  see 
a  wedding  here  upon  any  day  of  the  week,  and  at 
almost  any  hour  of  the  day,  in  season, — and  she  now 
recalled  the  pretty  scene.  Yes,  of  course  Jean  and  An- 
dre e  would  be  married  here. 

Obeying  a  curious  impulse,  the  girl,  still  breathing 
heavily,  ascended  the  broad  stone  steps  and  peeped  into 
the  little  vestibule.  The  dark  baize  door  within  stood 
ajar,  and  she  could  see  the  faint  twinkle  of  distant 
lights  and  smell  the  escaping  odors  from  the  last  mass. 

She  would  go  in — just  for  a  moment — to  see  again 
where  they  would  stand  before  the  altar.  It  would  do 
no  harm.  Her  last  thoughts  should  be  of  those  she 
loved, — loved  dearer — yes,  a  great  deal  more  dearly 
than  life. 

Entering,  she  mechanically  followed  her  training  at 
Le  Bon  Pasteur,  and,  bending  a  knee,  dipped  the  tips 


392  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

of  her  fingers  in  the  font  and  crossed  her  heaving 
breast. 

The  great  wax  tapers  were  still  burning  about  the 
ancient  altar,  and  here  and  there  pairs  and  bunches  of 
expiatory  candles  flickered  in  the  little  chapels. 

As  no  other  light  relieved  the  sombre  blackness  of 
the  vaulted  edifice,  an  indefinite  ghostliness  prevailed, 
from  out  of  which  the  numerous  gilded  forms  of  the 
Virgin  and  the  saints  appeared  half  intangible,  as  if 
hovering  about  with  no  fixed  support  or  substance. 

The  church  might  have  been  deserted,  so  far  as  any 
living  indications  were  visible,  though  two  or  three 
darker  splotches  on  the  darkness  could  have  been  taken 
for  as  many  penitents  seeking  the  peace  which  passeth 
understanding. 

Gliding  softly  down  the  right,  outside  of  the  pews 
and  row  of  stately  columns,  Mile.  Fouchette  stopped 
only  at  the  last  pillar,  from  which  she  had  a  near  view 
of  the  pretty  white  altar.  She  remained  there,  leaning 
against  the  pillar,  her  eyes  bent  upon  the  altar,  mo- 
tionless, for  a  long  time. 

During  that  period  she  had  pictured  just  how  the 
young  couple  would  look, — how  beautiful  the  bride 
would  appear, — how  noble  and  handsome  Jean  Marot 
would  shine  at  her  side. 

She  supplied  all  of  the  details  as  she  had  seen  them 
once  before,  correcting  and  rearranging  them  in  her 
mind  with  scrupulous  care. 

All  of  this  dreamily  and  without  emotion,  as  one 
lies  in  the  summer  shade  idly  tracing  the  fleeting 
clouds  across  a  summer's  sky. 

She  had  grown  wonderfully  calm,  and  when  she 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  393 

turned  away  she  gently  put  the  picture  behind  her  as 
an  accomplished  material  thing. 

On  her  way  she  paused  before  the  little  chapel  of 
Ste.  Genevieve.  There  were  candles  burning  before 
the  altar,  and  a  delicious,  holy  incense  filled  the  air. 

Mile.  Fouchette  recalled  the  stories  of  the  interces- 
sion of  Ste.  Genevieve  in  behalf  of  virgin  suppliants, 
and  impetuously  fell  upon  her  knees  outside  the  railing 
and  bowed  her  face  in  her  hands. 

She  knew  absolutely  nothing  of  theological  truth 
and  error;  religion  was  to  her  only  a  vague  scheme 
devised  for  other  people — not  for  her.  She  had  never 
in  all  her  life  uttered  a  prayer  save  on  compulsion. 
Now,  impulsively  and  without  forethought,  she  was 
kneeling  before  the  altar  and  acknowledging  God  and 
the  intercession  of  the  Christ. 

It  was  the  instinct  of  poor  insignificant  humanity — 
the  weakest  and  the  strongest,  the  worst  and  the  best 
— to  seek  in  the  hour  of  suffering  and  despair  some 
higher  power  upon  which  to  unburden  the  load  of  life. 

To  say  now  that  Mile.  Fouchette  prayed  would  be 
too  much.  She  did  not  know  how, — and  the  few  sen- 
tences she  recalled  from  Le  Bon  Pasteur  seemed  the 
mere  empty  rattle  of  beads. 

She  simply  wished.  And  as  Mile.  Fouchette  never 
did  anything  by  halves,  she  wished  devoutly,  earnestly, 
passionately,  and  with  the  hot  tears  streaming  from 
her  eyes,  without  uttering  a  single  word. 

It  would  have  been,  from  her  point  of  view,  quite 
impertinent  for  her  to  thrust  her  little  affairs  directly 
before  the  Throne.  She  was  too  timid  even  to  appeal 
to  the  Holy  Virgin,  as  she  had  often  heard  others  do, 


394  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

with  the  familiarity  of  personal  acquaintance ;  but  she 
felt  that  she  might  approach  Ste.  Genevieve,  patronne 
des  vierges,  with  some  confidence,  if  not  a  sense  of 
right. 

She  silently  and  tearfully  laid  her  heart  bare  to  Ste. 
Genevieve,  and  with  her  whole  passionate  soul  called 
upon  her  for  support  and  assistance.  If  ever  a  young 
virgin  needed  help  it  was  she,  Fouchette,  and  if  Ste. 
Genevieve  had  any  influence  at  the  higher  court,  now 
was  the  time  to  use  it.  First  it  was  that  Jean  and 
Andre  e  might  be  happy  and  think  of  her  kindly  now 
and  then;  next,  that  she  might  be  forgiven  for  every- 
thing up  to  date  and  be  permitted  to  be  good, — that 
some  way  might  be  opened  to  her,  and  that  she  might 
be  kept  in  that  way. 

Otherwise  she  must  surely  die. 

If  Sister  Agnes  might  only  be  restored  to  her,  it 
would  be  enough.  It  was  all  she  would  ask, — the  rest 
would  follow.  She  must  have  Sister  Agnes, — good 
Sister  Agnes,  who  loved  her  and  would  protect  her 
and  lead  her  safely  to  the  better  life.  Oh !  only  send 
her  Sister  Agnes 

"  My  child,  you  are  in  trouble  ?" 

That  gentle  voice !    The  soft,  caressing  touch ! 

Ah !  le  bon  Dieu ! 

It  was  Sister  Agnes,  truly ! 

The  religieuse,  ever  struggling  against  the  desires 
of  the  flesh,  had  unconsciously  kneeled  side  by  side 
with  the  youthful  suppliant.  Disturbed  by  the  sobs 
of  the  latter,  she  had  addressed  her  sympathetically. 

To  poor  little  ignorant  and  believing  Fouchette  it 
was  as  if  one  of  the  beautiful  painted  angels  had  sud- 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  395 

denly  assumed  life  and,  leaving  the  vaulted  ceiling, 
had  come  floating  down  to  softly  brush  her  with  her 
protecting  wings.  Awe-stricken  at  what  seemed  a 
direct  manifestation  of  God,  she  found  no  words  to 
express  either  surprise  or  joy.  She  simply  toppled 
over  into  the  arms  of  the  astonished  religieuse  and  lost 
consciousness.  The  reaction  was  too  great. 

Sister  Agnes,  who  had  not  recognized  in  the  girl 
dressed  as  a  bonne-a-toute-faire  her  protegee  of  Le 
Bon  Pasteur,  was  naturally  somewhat  startled  at  this 
unexpected  demonstration,  and  called  aloud  for  the 
sacristan. 

"  Blessed  be  God !"  she  exclaimed,  when  they  had 
carried  the  girl  into  the  light  of  the  vestry, — "  it  is 
Mademoiselle  Fouchette !" 

"  What's  she  doing  here?"  demanded  the  man,  with 
a  mixture  of  suspicion  and  indignation. 

"  Certainly  nothing  bad,  monsieur.  No,  it  can  be 
nothing  bad  which  leads  a  young  girl  to  prostrate  her- 
self at  this  hour  before  the  altar  of  the  blessed  Ste. 
Genevieve !" 

"  Ste.  Genevieve !  That  girl  ?  That—  Mere  de 
Dieu !  what  next  ?" 

"Chut!" 

"  But  it's  a  sacrilege,  my  sister.  It's  a  profanation 
of  God's  holy  temple !" 

"  S-sh !  monsieur " 

"  It's  a  wonder  she  was  not  stricken  dead !  Before 
Ste.  Genevieve!" 

"  S-sh !  monsieur,"  protested  the  religieuse,  gently, 
"  ne  jugez  pas !" 

"  But " 


396  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

"  Ne  jugez  pas !" 

They  had,  in  the  mean  time,  applied  simple  restora- 
tives with  such  effect  that  Mile.  Fouchette  soon  began 
to  exhibit  signs  of  reanimation. 

"  Will  you  kindly  leave  me  alone  with  her  here  for  a 
few  minutes  ?"  whispered  Sister  Agnes. 

"Willingly,"  replied  the  ruffled  attendant.  "And 
mighty  glad  to " 

"S-sh!" 

When  Mile.  Fouchette's  eyes  were  finally  opened 
they  first  fell  upon  the  motherly  face  of  Sister  Agnes, 
then  wandered  rapidly  about  the  room,  as  if  to  fix  her 
situation  definitely,  to  again  rest  upon  the  religieuse. 
And  this  look  was  one  of  inexpressible  content, — of 
boundless  love  and  confidence. 

Sister  Agnes,  who  was  seated  on  the  edge  of  the 
sofa  on  which  the  girl  lay  extended,  leaned  over  and 
affectionately  kissed  her  lips. 

"  You  are  much  better  now,  my  child  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  indeed !  I  was  afraid  it  might  be  only — 
only  a  dream, — one  dreams  such  things,  n'est-ce  pas? 
But  it  is  true !  There  is  really  a  God,  and  prayers  are 
answered — when  one  believes, — yes;  when  one  be- 
lieves very  hard!  Even  the  prayers  of  a  poor  little, 
miserable,  wicked,  motherless  girl  like  me.  Ah ! " 

"  Cer — certainly,  cherie;  but  don't  try  to  talk  just 
yet.  Wait  a  bit.  You  will  feel  stronger." 

The  religieuse  thought  the  girl's  mind  was  wander- 
ing. 

"  And  good  Ste.  Genevieve  heard  me  and  had  you 
sent  to  me.  It  was  all  I  asked.  For  I  knew  that  if  I 
only  had  you,  I  could  be  good,  and  I  would  know  what 


MLLE.  FOUCHETTE  397 

to  do.  It  was  all  I  asked — for  myself.  And  you  were 
sent  at  once.  Dear,  good,  sweet  Sister  Agnes! — the 
only  one  who  ever  loved  me! — except  Tartar, — and 
love  is  necessary,  n'est-ce  pas?" 

"You  asked  for  me?" 

Sister  Agnes  listened  now  with  intense  interest. 
Mile.  Fouchette  was  a  revelation. 

"  Oh !  yes, — and  they  sent  you — almost  at  once ! 
Blessed  Ste.  Genevieve !" 

"  Why,  what  was  the  matter,  Fouchette  ?"  inquired 
Sister  Agnes,  wiping  her  eyes,  after  gently  disen- 
gaging the  young  arms  from  her  neck.  She  tried  to 
speak  cheerily. 

"  Take  me  as  you  did  when  I  first  saw  you, — when 
I  was  in  the  cell," — and  the  voice  now  was  that  of  a 
pleading  child, — "  that  way ;  yes, — kiss  me  once  more." 

On  the  matronly  bosom  of  Sister  Agnes  the  girl 
told  her  story, — the  story  of  her  love,  of  her  suffering, 
of  her  hopes,  of  her  final  failure,  of  her  despair. 

"  You  see,  my  more  than  mother,  it  was  too 
much " 

"  Too  much !  I  should  think  so !"  interrupted  the 
good  sister,  brusquely,  to  prevent  a  total  breakdown. 
"  Sainte  Mere  de  Dieu !  such  is  for  the  angels  in 
heaven,  mon  enfant, — for  mortals,  never!" 

"  When  I  found  she  was  my  sister, — that  her  brother 
was  my  brother, — and  that  even  Jean  Marot — I  could 
not  be  one  to  spoil  this  happiness  by  making  myself 
known.  No,  I  would  rather  die.  I  should  hate  my- 
self even  if  they  did  not  hate  me.  No,  no,  no !  I  could 
never  do  that !" 

"  Fouchette,  you  are  an  angel !" 


398  MLLE.  FOUCHETTE 

The  religieuse  slipped  to  the  floor  at  the  girl's  side, 
and  covered  the  small  hands  with  kisses.  She  felt  the 
insignificance  of  her  own  worldly  trials. 

"  I  am  not  worthy  to  sit  in  your  presence,  Fou- 
chette,"  she  faltered. 

******** 

As  they  slowly  passed  out  of  the  church  the  younger 
seemed  to  support  the  elder  woman.  Both  bowed  for 
a  few  moments  in  silence  before  the  altar  of  Ste.  Gene- 
vieve. 

And  when  they  arose,  Mile.  Fouchette  took  from  the 
bosom  of  her  dress  a  bit  of  folded  paper  and  put  it  in 
the  box  of  offerings  inside  the  rail. 

It  was  the  bank-note  for  five  hundred  francs. 

At  the  door  the  grim  sacristan,  long  impatient  for 
this  departure,  growled  his  final  disapproval  of  Mile. 
Fouchette. 

"  She's  a  terror,"  he  said. 

"  She's  a  saint,  monsieur,"  was  the  quiet  reply  of 
Sister  Agnes. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  great  door  of  the  Dames  de 
St.  Michel  closed  upon  the  two  women.  Mile.  Fou- 
chette had  ceased  to  exist,  and  Mile.  Louise  Remy  had 
entered  upon  the  coveted  life  of  peace  and  love. 


THE   END 


A     000126824     2 


